-NRLF 


B    3    3EE    7MD 


i§;a=S£sssS33gSsfJ 

EXLIBJUS 


LEGENDS 


OF 


LOYE  AND  CHIYALRY, 


Canute  of  dfogtonb. 


THE 


CAVALIERS  OF  ENGLAND, 


OR 


THE  TIMES  OF  THE  REVOLUTIONS  OF  1642  AND  1688, 


BY 


HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  ROMAN  TRAITOR*' — "  MARMADUKE  WYVIL" — "  CROMWELL," 
"  THE  BROTHERS" — "  CAPTAINS  OF  THE  OLD  WORLD,"  ETC. 


KEDFIELD, 

CLINTON     HALL,     NEW     YORK. 

1852. 


Entered,  according  io  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852, 

BY  J.  S.  REDF1ELD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


STEREOTYPED    BY    C.   C.    SAVAGE, 
13  Chambers  Street,  N.  Y. 


MY  DEAR  HALLECK: — 

I  know  that  to  no  purer  judge,  no  deeper  drinker  at  the  well 
of  English  undefiled  than  yourself  could  I  do  myself  the  honor 
of  dedicating  my  volumes.  I  know  also  that  to  no  friendlier 
auditor  could  I  offer  it,  than  to  you,  who,  of  American  poets, 
was  the  first  to  encourage  my  efforts  by  the  grateful  meed  of 
your  approbation.  Accept,  therefore,  this  slight  tribute  of  my 
regard  and  gratitude,  in  which  if  you  recognise  some  of  my 
earlier  lucubrations,  you  will  find  them  retouched  by  an  elder, 
if  not  abler  hand,  and  contrasted  with  several  the  very  latest, 
and  pray,  Believe  me  ever, 

Your  sincere  friend  and  faithful  servant, 

HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT. 
THE  CEDARS, 
January  1,  1852. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

THE  BROTHERS  IN  ARMS,  OR  THREE  NOBLEST  VICTIMS  FOR 
OPINION'S  SAKE 9 

THE  RIVAL  SISTERS    OR  INGLEBOROUGH  HALL 27 

JASPER  ST.  ATJEYN,  OR  THE  COURSE  OF  PASSION 147 

VERNON  IN  THE  VALE,  OR  THE  PRICE  OF  BLOOD 343 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


IN  producing  this  volume  of  "  LEGENDS  OF  LOVE  AND  CHIV 
ALRY,"  I  neither  desire  to  palm  off  an  old  work  on  the  public 
as  a  new,  nor  yet  to  have  what  is  really,  in  some  considerable 
part  new,  regarded  as  a  mere  reproduction. 

For  nearly  twenty  years,  I  have  been  engaged  in  the  prepa 
ration  of  articles  for  various  magazines,  some  yet  alive  and 
flourishing,  many  long  since  defunct.  Many  of  these  maga 
zines  had  but  a  small  circulation  at  any  time,  many  are  utterly 
forgotten,  all  are  considered  more  or  less  as  ephemeral,  to  be 
read  once  and  laid  aside  for  ever.  A  new  generation,  more 
over,  has  arisen  since  I  first  assumed  the  pen  as  a  profession  ; 
and  it  is  the  consideration  of  all  these  things,  united  with  the 
hope  that  some  of  my  more  recent  readers  may  care  to  learn 
something  of  the  man  who  is,  in  the  boy  who  has  ceased  to 
be,  and  the  pardonable  desire  of  placing  in  a  permanent  shape, 
what  has  only  heretofore  appeared  in  a  fugitive  form,  that  I 
now  lay  before  a  public — which  has  always  been  indulgent  to 
me  —  a  revised,  rewritten,  and  augmented  edition  of  some  wri- 


8  ADVERTISEMENT. 

tings,  which,  perhaps,  with  the  natural  partiality  of  the  old  for 
the  things  they  did  when  young,  I  do  not  consider  the  worst 
of  my  humble  efforts. 

The  papers  which  compose  this  series,  in  part  original  and 
new,  are  herein  published,  not  in  chronological  order  as  they 
were  written,  but  in  chronological  order  as  the  events  occurred 
to  which  they  relate — they  are  in  close  connection  as  to  time, 
place,  and  I  believe,  historic  verisimilitude — they  are  intended 
to  illustrate  the  habits  of  society,  life,  and  manners,  the  usages 
and  feelings,  both  military  and  domestic,  of  various  countries, 
at  various  epochs,  from  the  commencement  of  chivalry  in  the 
crusades,  to  its  conclusion  in  the  epoch  of  Louis  XIV.,  of 
France. 

I  have  no  more  to  say  in  explanation,  either  of  my  work,  or 
of  my  motives  in  producing  it,  but  only  to  submit  it  to  the  can 
dor  and  kindness  of  my  readers,  be  they  few  or  many. 

HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT. 
THE  CEDARS, 

January  1,  1852. 


in  $rtna; 


OR, 


THBEE  NOBLEST  VICTIMS  FOR  OPMOJf  SAKE, 


nf 


1643. 


THE   BKOTHEKS   I1ST   AEMS. 


IT  is  the  saddest  of  all  the  considerations  which  weigh  upon 
the  candid  and  sincere  mind  of  the  true  patriot,  when  civil  dis 
pute  is  on  the  eve  of  degenerating  into  civil  war,  that  the  best, 
the  wisest,  and  the  bravest  of  both  parties,  are  those  who  first 
fall  victims  for  those  principles  which  they  mutually,  with  equal 
purity  and  faith,  and  almost  with  equal  reason,  believe  to  be 
true  and  vital ;  that  the  moderate  men,  who  have  erst  stood 
side  by  side  for  the  maintenance  of  the  right  and  the  common 
good  —  who  alone,  in  truth,  care  for  either  right  or  common 
good — now  parted  by  a  difference  nearly  without  a  distinction, 
are  set  in  deadly  opposition,  face  to  face,  to  slay  and  be  slain 
for  the  benefit  of  the  ultraists —  of  the  ambitious,  heartless,  or 
fanatical  self-seekers,  who  hold  aloof  in  the  beginning,  while 
principles  are  at  stake,  and  come  into  the  conflict  when  the 
heat  and  toil  of  the  day  are  over,  and  when  their  own  end,  not 
their  country's  object,  remains  only  to  be  won. 

So  great  and  manifest  a  truth  is  this,  and  so  heavily  has  the 
sense  of  this  responsibility  weighed  upon  the  souls  of  the  best, 
and  therefore  greatest  men,  that  not  a  few  have  doubted  whether 
it  be  not  better  to  endure  all  endurable  assaults  on  liberty,  all, 
in  a  word,  short  of  its  utter  extinction,  than  to  defend  it  through 
the  awful  path  of  civil  war ;  which,  terminate  it  how  it  may, 


12  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

leaves  the  state,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  in  the  end,  as  much 
aloof  from  true  liberty  on  the  one  side,  as  it  was  in  the  com 
mencement  on  the  other. 

This  sad  and  terrible  truth  was  never  more  clearly  demon 
strated  than  in  the  opening  of  the  great  English  civil  war 
between  the  first  Charles  and  his  parliament — a  war  which 
began,  undeniably,  with  the  king,  as  principally  in  the  wrong — 
though  the  worst  grievances  on  his  part  were  already  redressed, 
and  his  most  odious  pretensions  renounced — and  which  ended 
with  the  parliament  as  the  most  odious,  intolerant,  persecuting, 
and  despotical  oligarchy,  that  ever  induced  true  men  almost  to 
loathe  the  prostituted  name  of  liberty. 

I  am  not  about  to  write  history,  but  to  portray  one  true  and 
sad  scene  of  it.  Yet  to  do  so,  it  is  necessary  to  glance  briefly 
at  the  events  preceding  it.  All  readers  are  of  course  aware 
that,  during  the  whole  seventeen  years,  between  the  accession 
of  the  unfortunate  Charles  to  the  throne  and  the  hoisting  of  his 
standard  at  Nottingham,  there  had  been  a  long  and  fiercely-dis 
puted  civil  struggle  between  the  supporters  of  constitutional 
liberty  and  the  upholders  of  irresponsible  monarchy  ;  in  which 
the  latter  were  beaten,  step  by  step,  till  every  stronghold  of 
their  position  was  forced,  and  the  position  itself  abandoned  as 
untenable. 

When  Charles,  at  Nottingham,  raised  that  hapless  standard, 
amid  the  wind  and  tempest,  which,  ominous  of  ill,  rent  it  from 
the  banner-staff,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  do  so  if  he  intended  aught 
beyond  holding  the  title  and  wearing  the  insignia  of  a  royalty 
which  had  ceased  to  exist.  And  so  clearly  was  this  visible, 
that  many  of  those  who  had  waged  the  civic  strife  most  strenu 
ously  in  their  places  in  the  senate,  who  had  risked  their  all — 
that  all  which  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
pledged — their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred  honors, 
against  the  absolute  yea  of  a  despotic  king  —  now  risked  that 


THE    TRUE    PATRIOTS.  13 

very  all  against  the  arrogant  assumption  of  an  intruding  parlia 
ment.  Nay !  that  the  most  prominent  of  the  leaders  on  the 
side  of  the  parliament  itself,  dreading  the  victory  of  their  own 
masters  but  little  less  than  that  of  the  king,  suffered  the  war  to 
languish  which  they  might  have  finished  at  a  blow,  almost  be 
fore  it  was  begun  ;  while  the  "  nobles  who  fought  for  the  crown" 
were  almost  equally  unwilling  to  see  Charles  too  suddenly  and 
thoroughly  successful,  lest  with  the  recovery  of  his  just  preroga 
tive  he  might  return  to  his  unjust  assumptions. 

But  scarcely  had  a  year  flown,  or  ever  the  field  was  left  clear, 
the  true  patriots — the  wise,  the  noble,  and  the  good,  on  either 
side  —  had  fallen  fruitless  victims  to  their  principles  —  clear 
for  the  conflict  of  the  unscrupulous  and  the  selfish,  the  bold  and 
the  bad. 

Every  field,  on  which  the  kindred  armies  met  during  the 
first  two  years,  was  watered  with  the  best  blood  of  England. 
But  though  great  men  and  good  men  fell  on  either  side,  it  is  on 
record,  from  the  lips  of  one  not  likely  to  overlaud  the  royalists, 
that  in  every  action,  whether  he  won  or  lost  the  day,  the  king 
was  the  loser  ;  for  that  he  lost  nobles  and  gentlemen,  while  the 
parliament  lost  pimple-nosed  serving-men  and  drunken  tapsters  ; 
and  Oliver  Cromwell  was  not  the  man  to  value  the  life  of  gen 
tleman  or  noble  above  that  of  serving-man  or  tapster,  merely 
for  the  station  which  he  filled  or  the  title  which  he  held,  unless 
there  had  been  something  truly  noble  —  noble  with  the  nobility 
of  manhood,  truth,  and  virtue  —  in  those  dead  peers  of  England 
to  whom  he  left  this  honest  epitaph. 

Of  those  who  had  most  earnestly,  most  usefully  striven,  side 
by  side  in  the  house  for  constitutional  liberty,  before  the  sword 
was  drawn,  the  best  and  wisest  were,  John  Hampden  ;  Lucius 
Cary,  better  known  as  Lord  Falkland ;  Hyde,  earl  of  Claren 
don,  the  great  historian  ;  Sir  Harry  Vane  ;  Lord  Kimbolton, 
afterward  earl  of  Manchester  ;  the  Lord  Carnarvon  ;  and  many 

2 


14  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

another  commoner  and  peer,  all  alike  true  to  their  trust  as 
Englishmen,  all  alike  resolute  champions,  noble  conquerors  of 
England's  constitutional  freedom. 

The  sword  was  drawn  :  and  where  were  those  banded  broth 
ers  ?  Hampden  in  arms  for  the  state,  Falkland  in  arms  for  the 
king ;  Hyde  and  Sir  Harry  Vane  with  but  the  rapier's  length 
between  them  ;  Manchester  a  general  of  the  parliament,  Car 
narvon  the  best  horse-officer  of  the  king ! 

Alas,  patriotic  blood  !  alas,  noble  victims  !  on  both  sides  vic 
tims  to  the  same  cause  of  liberty — each  as  he  understood  the 
term  in  his  sincere,  unselfish  soul!  —  alas!  band  of  brethren 
severed  and  set  in  mortal  opposition,  by  the  least  difference  of 
opinion,  by  the  mere  shadow  of  a  shade ! 

And  of  all  these,  or  ever  a  full  year  had  passed  away  from 
the  displaying  of  that  standard,  the  best  slept  in  a  bloody  grave. 
Or  ever  the  fierce  struggle  was  fought  out,  all  had  retired  to 
make  way  for  the  unscrupulous  and  unpatriotic,  who  fought  for 
names,  not  for  things  ;  for  profit,  not  for  principle. 

The  first  action  of  the  armies,  at  Edgehill,  was  a  drawn  bat 
tle  ;  but  its  consequences,  no  less  than  the  prestige  of  first  vie-  • 
tory,  were  with  Charles.  Essex  retreated  ;  and  the  king  took 
Oxford,  Reading,  marched  on  his  metropolis,  beat  the  parlia 
ment-men  at  Brentford,  within  six  miles  of  London,  and  might 
have  finished  the  war  that  day  ;  but  that  his  own  officers,  dis 
trusting  him,  as  Essex  distrusted  his  masters,  persuaded  him 
to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  retire  to  Oxford,  in  hope  of  a  speedy 
accommodation. 

So  closed  the  first  campaign :  but  here  to  close  the  war  was 
found  impossible  ;  for  the  king  could  not,  the  parliament  would 
not,  recede  one  inch.  With  the  spring  of  1643  the  war  was 
recommenced  ;  and,  with  the  war,  havoc  unheard  of  in  Eng 
land  since  the  bloody  conflict  between  the  rival  roses.  In  the 
north  the  cavaliers,  in  the  east  the  puritans,  were  in  the  ascen- 


CHALGROVE-FIELD.  15 

dency ;  and  in  these  quarters  little  fell  ouf  of  importance.  In 
the  west,  every  stream  ran  red,  every  grass  field  grew  rank,  with 
carnage.  At  Stratton,  on  the  16th  of  May,  the  Cornish  under 
Trevannion,  Slanning,  and  Sir  Bevil  Grenville,  all  peaceful  and 
accomplished  men,  torn  from  the  endearments  of  home  and  the 
charming  ties  of  family  by  an  overruling  sense  of  duty,  and  the 
last  of  the  three  admitted  by  his  enemies  to  be  the  best-beloved 
person  in  all  the  west  of  England,  carried  all  before  them — 
weeping  amid  the  joy  of  victory  over  the  gallant  dead  who  had 
fallen  by  their  own  unwilling  swords.  At  Chalgrove-field,  in 
Berkshire,  only  a  few  weeks  later,  fell  John  Hampden,  serving 
as  a  volunteer  with  the  horse  of  Lord  Essex;  and — I  quote 
from  a  well-known  historian — "  what  most  pleased  the  royal 
ists  was  the  expectation  that  some  disaster  had  happened  to  Mr. 
Hampden,  their  capital  and  much-dreaded  enemy.  One  of  the 
prisoners  taken  in  the  action  said  he  was  confident  Mr.  Hamp 
den  was  hurt ;  for  he  saw  him,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom, 
ride  off  the  field  before  the  action  was  finished  ;  his  head  hang 
ing  down,  and  his  hands  leaning  on  his  horse's  neck.  Next 
day  the  news  arrived  that  he  was  shot  in  the  shoulder  with  a 
brace  of  bullets,  and  the  bone  broken.  Some  days  after  he 
died,  in  exquisite  pain,  of  his  wound ;  nor  could  his  whole 
party,  had  their  army  met  a  total  overthrow,  have  been  thrown 
into  greater  consternation."  The  death  of  John  Hampden  most 
pleased  the  royalists  ! — most  pleased  the  very  men  who,  one 
little  year  before,  had  been  his  friends  and  fellow-voters,  for 
freedom  and  against  the  king !  And  this  is  civil  war  !  its  con- 
seqnences  and  its  glory ! 

Oh,  fatal  joy  of  the  victorious  royalists !  For  had  John 
Hampden  not  ridden  off  the  field  of  Chalgrove,  "  with  his  head 
hanging  down  and  his  hands  on  his  horse's  neck,"  but  lived  to 
see  the  end  of  that  dread  war,  the  first  Charles  had  never  bent 
his  head  to  the  block  at  Whitehall ;  had  the  good  commoner 


16  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

not  died  in  exquisite  pain  of  that  wound,  neither  had  the  weak 
king  died  in  exquisite  indignity  of  the  headman's  blow. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment,  on  Lansdown,  known  to  this  day 
as  the  "  field  of  gentle  blood,"  fell  Basil  Grenville,  "the  person 
most  beloved  in  all  the  west  of  England" — fell  in  the  arms  of 
victory,  almost  rejoicing  to  be  thus  early  released  from  the  sad 
task  of  fighting  against  Englishmen,  as  he  believed  for  Eng 
land's  welfare.  At  Roundway-down,  on  the  13th  of  July,  Wil- 
mot,  with  fearful  loss,  utterly  routed  Waller  for  the  parliament ; 
and  the  next  month  Rupert  won  Bristol  at  the  pike's  point,  but 
left  in  the  bloody  breaches  Slanning,  Trevannion,  Viscount 
Grandison,  all  patriots,  all  men  of  moderation,  with  five  hundred 
others,  all  gentlemen  of  veritable  honor. 

Again  the  king  might  have  marched  upon  London,  and  again 
would  he  certainly  have  carried  it.  But  again  the  moderation 
of  his  nobles,  and  their  distrust  of  him  whom  yet  they  most 
trusted,  prevailed  ;  and  they  induced  him  to  sit  down,  fatally 
for  the  royal  cause,  before  the  trifling  town  of  Gloucester  — 
still  hoping  that  in  its  weak  and  reduced  condition  the  parlia 
ment  might  now  be  willing  to  treat  on  fair  and  equitable  terms. 
But  the  moderate  men  were  dead,  or  disgusted  with  the  weary 
war,  and  had  retired  from  a  strife  which  they  already  perceived 
to  be  hopeless  if  not  endless.  And  with  persistency  equal  to 
that  of  Rome  when  Hannibal  was  thundering  at  her  gates  — 
and  had  it  been  in  as  just  a  cause,  equally  noble  —  the  parlia 
ment  still  stood  defiant,  refusing  all  accommodation,  save  on 
terms  that  would  have  left  the  king  virtually  crownless  and  the 
realm  actually  churchless.  Within  the  walls  of  Gloucester, 
Massey  made  a  defence  that  was  indeed  heroical.  And  as  the 
king's  fortunes  waxed  sick  with  hope  delayed,  more  and  more 
did  the  moderate  men,  at  length  then  perceiving  the  ambition 
of  the  parliament,  fall  off  from  those  who  no  longer  fought  for 
freedom.  Bedford,  Holland,  and  Conway,  all  peers  of  England, 


RELIEF    OF    GLOUCESTER.  17 

peers  of  the  first  and  noblest,  all  then,  and  to  this  day,  lovers 
of  the  largest  liberty,  deserted  the  puritans'  parliament  at  White 
hall,  to  join  the  king's  parliament  at  Oxford.  Northumberland, 
the  parliamentarian  admiral,  forsook  the  fleet  and  retired  to  his 
castle  in  his  own  northern  county  ;  Essex,  the  parliamentarian 
general,  exhorted  his  masters  to  peace,  and  almost  declined 
their  service.  .All  thoughts  of  pacification  were  then  laid  aside, 
for  the  presbyterian  pulpits  thundered,  the  puritan  zealots  of 
the  city  raved  and  rioted,  the  parliamentarian  statesmen  lied, 
without  shame  or  remorse  ;  spreading  a  rumor,  which  they  knew 
to  be  false,  shaking  the  national  and  religious  heart  of  England 
to  its  very  core  —  "a  rumor  of  twenty  thousand  Irish  papists 
who  had  landed,  and  were  to  cut  the  throat  of  every  protestant." 

Then  Essex  marched,  and  then  reluctant  —  marched  only 
then  because  unwilling  to  resign  his  leading  to  fierce,  unscru 
pulous,  fanatic  gladiators.  By  a  masterly  move,  he  relieved 
Gloucester  ;  but,  still  unwilling  to  conquer,  declined  battle,  and 
retired  by  a  circuitous  route  on  London.  The  cavaliers  mean 
while  did  now,  when  it  was  too  late,  what,  had  they  done  in 
July,  would  have  placed  the  king  in  that  palace  which  he  was 
never  to  enter  but  once  more,  and  only  thence  to  issue  upon 
the  scaffold.  They  marched  straight  upon  London,  seeing  at 
last  that  peace  could  be  only  had  through  conquest. 

When  Essex  came  to  Newbury,  some  sixty  miles  from  Lon 
don,  thinking  that  he  had  circumvented  the  royalists  and  left 
them  far  to  the  rearward,  he  found  them  in  force,  and  prepared 
for  instant  action,  between  him  and  his  goal.  He  had  no  choice 
but  to  fight ;  and  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  a  dull,  care 
worn  countenance,  that  he  saw  the  sun  go  down  behind  the 
Berkshire  hills,  as  he  gave  orders  to  deliver  battle  on  the 
morrow. 

There  is  no  lovelier  or  more  sweetly  pastoral  plain  in  all  the 

2* 


18  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

southwest  of  England  than  that  through  which  flow  the  bright  wa 
ters  of  the  brimful  Kennet,  whereon  stands  the  old  town  of  New- 
bury,  defended  by  the  gray  and  dismantled  keep  of  Donnington, 
stretching  away  northward  in  a  boundless  champaign  of  green 
luxuriance  far  into  level  Berkshire,  but  to  the  southward  bounded 
by  the  rich  beech-woods  of  Hampshire,  above  which  rise,  scarce 
six  miles  distant — this  bleak  and  bare  to  the  top,  where  it  is 
crested  by  the  vallum  of  a  Roman  camp,  that  clothed  in  glori 
ous  umbrage  to  the  very  summit  —  the  twin  chalk-hills  Beacon 
and  Syddon.  Sweet  plain  !  dear,  unforgotten  hills  !  two  fifths 
of  a  century  have  flown  since  I  beheld  you  last,  happy  in  easy, 
careless  childhood,  and  in  all  chances  of  mortality  never  shall 
I  behold  you  any  more  ;  yet  the  memory  of  your  green  slopes, 
your  gleaming  waters,  and  of  those  gray,  war-battered  walls  of 
Donnington,  is  fresher  and  warmer  at  my  heart  than  many  a 
thing  of  yesterday — fresh  and  warm  as  the  tones  of  a  voice, 
long  since  mute  in  the  cold  grave,  which  told  me,  yet  a  mere 
child,  while  the  speaker's  hand  pointed  to  the  crumbling  keep, 
that  beneath  those  gray  ruins,  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago, 
ONE  fell,  who  bore  a  familiar  and  a  kindred  name  —  fell  in  his 
duty,  fighting  for  his  king,  his  country,  and  his  God  ;  and  fixed 
the  moral  in  the  boy's  mind  by  the  injunction,  "  When  need 
shall  be,  see  that  thou  do  in  likewise  !" 

The  day  had  come  when  that  one  finished  his  career  of  glo 
ry.  And  on  the  morning  of  that  September  day  he  sat  with  two 
others,  brothers  in  arms,  before  a  frugal  table,  nigh  to  a  latticed 
window  of  his  then  unbattered  tower  of  Donnington.  And  he 
gazed  through  the  lattice  over  the  deep  woodlands  of  East 
Woodhay,  then  glowing  with  the  first  golden  hues  of  autumn, 
over  the  fair  demesnes  of  Highclere,  toward  those  fair  hills,  his 
birthright,  as  his  birthplace  :  but  between  these  and  his  eye 
frowned  the  deep  masses  of  the  parliamentarian  foot,  bristling 
with  puissant  pikes,  and  sparkling  with  the  already  kindled 


THE    FRIENDS.  19 

matches  of  the  firm  London  trainbands  ;  and  he  turned  him 
from  the  sight,  and  raised  the  winecup  with  a  sigh. 

Robert  Dormer,  of  that  line  the  last  earl  of  Carnarvon — his 
portrait,  and  in  his  portrait  the  man,  yet  lives,  as  he  lived  then, 
in  the  unaltered  colors  of  Antonio  Vandyke.  Tall,  slender, 
graceful,  with  the  high,  sharp-cut,  aquiline  features  and  loose- 
waving  chestnut  locks  —  sure  indications  of  his  Norman  blood 
— with  the  loose  velvet  jerkin,  the  broad  embroidered  sword- 
belt,  the  richly-wrought  lace  collar,  in  which — for  few  of  the 
cavaliers  wore  defensive  armor,  although  their  enemies  were 
cased  in  complete  steel — he  was  ever  wont,  as  Clarendon  has 
left  it  of  him,  to  charge  home. 

His  friends  and  fellow-soldiers,  fellow-lovers  of  liberty  above 
glory,  now  fighting  for  its  substance  and  reality  against  its  empty 
name  and  semblance,  were  Lucius  Gary,  Viscount  Falkland, 
and  the  young  earl  of  Sunderland,  immortalized  they  also  by 
the  same  wondrous  Flemish  painter. 

But  Falkland  lives  not  on  his  canvass  as  he  showed  on  that 
morning,  but  as  before  the  civil  wars  began — young,  smooth 
faced,  serene,  joyous,  happy  ;  courtly  attired  in  rich  blue  velvet, 
with  large  white  tassels  pendent  from  his  Flanders  lace  cravat. 
Such  was  he  in  happier  days,  who,  "  when  called  into  public 
life,  stood  foremost  in  all  attacks  upon  the  high  prerogatives  of 
the  crown,  and  displayed  that  masculine  eloquence  and  un 
daunted  love  of  liberty,  which,  from  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  sublime  spirits  of  antiquity,  he  had  greedily  imbibed." 
Such  was  he  in  happier  days,  who,  when  compelled  to  choose 
sides  in  actual  war,  when  he  had  elected  to  "  defend  those  lim 
ited  powers  which  remained  to  monarchy,  and  which  he  deemed 
necessary  to  the  support  of  the  English  constitution,"  lost  all 
his  natural  cheerfulness  and  vivacity,  became  almost  a  sloven 
in  his  dress,  and  was  wont  oftentimes,  even  when  in  the  midst 
of  joyous  friends,  with  wine  and  revelry  around  him,  to  shake 


20  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

his  head  in  sorrowful  abstraction,  to  wring  his  hands,  and  "  in 
geminate  with  shrill,  sad  accents,  the  words  '  peace,  peace  !' " 
Such  was  he  in  happier  days,  who  was  beloved  by  friend  and 
foe  ;  the  friend  of  John  Hampden,  the  friend  of  Charles  Stuart ; 
one  of  the  best  and  truest  gentlemen  the  world  ever  saw  —  ora- 
ator,  scholar,  statesman,  soldier,  patriot,  man.  Even  when  he 
took  arms  for  conscience  sake,  for  conscience  sake  also  he 
would  take  no  command,  but  fought  ever,  as  Hampden  was 
fighting  when  he  fell,  a  volunteer  in  the  horse. 

The  earl  of  Sunderland  was  the  youngest  of  the  three,  and, 
as  the  youngest,  untried  in  statesmanship  though  proved  in  war, 
less  a  scholar  than  a  soldier,  and  less  a  thinker  than  an  actor, 
the  cheeriest  and  lightest-hearted  of  the  three.  He  alone  of 
the  three  was  sheathed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  complete  pano 
ply  of  antique  armor,  but  he  wore  his  visor  up  and  beaver  down, 
revealing  the  whole  of  his  smooth,  youthful  face  and  delicate 
features,  flushed  a  little  by  the  heat  of  his  armor  and  the  ex 
citement  of  the  moment. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,"  he  said,  "  Carnarvon  ?  You  are  not 
wont  to  sigh,  I  think,  on  the  eve  of  battle." 

"  I  am  not  wont  to  sigh,"  replied  the  other,  "  you  should  say 
rather,  Sunderland,  in  the  act  of  battle.  But  who  would  not 
sigh  to  look  on  such  a  sight  as  that  ?"  He  pointed  to  the  steady 
front  of  the  puritans,  stationary  on  the  plain,  and  thence  to  the 
gay  cassocks  and  plumed  hats  of  Rupert's  highborn  cavalry, 
wheeling  and  careering  in  the  distance  ;  and  concluded  by  quo 
ting  in  a  solemn  and  melancholy  tone  the  glorious  lines  of 
Massinger : — 

"  <  They  have  drawn  together 
Two  royal  armies  full  of  fiery  youth, 
Equal  in  power  to  do  and  courage  to  bear, 
So  near  intrenched  it  is  beyond  all  hope 
That  shall  be  divided  any  more 
Until  it  be  determined  by  the  sword 


THE    EVE    OF    BATTLE.  21 

Which  hath  the  better  cause ;  seeing  that  success 
Concludes  the  victor  innocent,  the  vanquished 
Most  miserably  guilty.' 

"  Is  it  not  so,  dear  Falkland  ?" 

But  he  whom  he  addressed  shook  his  head  with  a  calm, 
grave  smile  ;  and  then  his  companions  observed,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  was  dressed  with  elegance  and  taste  very  unusual 
for  him  in  later  days,  and  that  his  long,  light  hair,  once  so  beau 
tiful,  was  carefully  combed  out  and  curled,  and  although  sadly 
faded  and  thickly  streaked  with  gray,  bespoke  the  courtier  and 
the  cavalier  rather  than  the  spirit-broken  murmurer  for  "peace  ! 
peace  /" 

Sunderland  saw  this  first,  and  partly  it  may  be  from  a  touch 
of  recklessness,  partly  from  a  desire  to  cheer  up  the  despond 
ent  spirits  of  his  gallant  friends,  he  still  spoke  in  livelier  tones 
than  his  own  heart  suggested. 

"  The  days  of  miracles  have  come  again,  I  think,"  he  said. 
"  Here  is  Carnarvon  grave  and  Falkland  gay  at  the  prospect 
of  striking  one  more  good  blow  for  the  king,  perhaps  the  win 
ning  blow.  For  if  we  scatter,  as  the  Lord  in  his  grace  send 
we  may,  those  scurvy  Londoners  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven, 
it  is  as  clear  as  yon  rising  sun  that  the  rogue  parliament  can 
raise  no  army  any  more,  and  the  king  must  enjoy  his  own 
again.  Thinkest  thou  not  with  me,  gallant  Falkland  ?  Nay, 
but  I  know  thou  dost,  else  why  so  light  a  smile  and  so  gay  a 
garb,  unless  that  thy  clear  soul  foresees  thy  long-desired  peace  ?" 

"  Those  scurvy  Londoners  are  Englishmen  still,  Sunderland," 
replied  Carnarvon  ;  "  Englishmen  fighting,  as  we  fight,  for  what 
they  honestly  believe  the  right.  I  for  one  am  sick  of  smiting, 
and  would  it  were  over,  whether  it  were  by  peace  or  by — " 

"  Death,  dear  Carnarvon,"  interrupted  Falkland  ;  "  death,  gen 
tle  Sunderland.  It  is  death  that  I  foresee,  not  victory  nor  peace. 
I  would  not  that  the  enemy  should  find  me  dead  in  slovenly 


22  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

attire  or  in  any  guise  indecent  and  unfitting  to  our  calling  and 
our  cause.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  am  brave  to-day ;  and  if  I 
be  less  sad  than  is  my  wont,  it  is  that  I  am  aweary  of  the  times 
and  foresee  much  more  misery  to  England.  But  I  believe 
that  I  shall  be  out  of  it  before  night." 

"  Indeed !  indeed !  do  you  too  feel  this  ?"  cried  Carnarvon. 
"  Why,  as  I  looked  but  now  over  my  greenwoods  of  East  Wood- 
hay,  over  my  chase  of  Highclere,  over  my  Hampshire  hills,  I 
felt  as  if  a  voice  spoke  to  me  audibly,  *  Look  thy  last,  look  thy 
last  at  them,  Robert  Dormer ;  for  never  wilt  thou,  nor  any  of 
thy  name,  see  the  sun  rise  up  any  more  or  go  down  over  them.' " 

"  But  it  was  not  therefore  thou  didst  sigh  ?"  asked  his  friend. 
"  Thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ;  dost  thou  regret  to  die  ?" 

"  I  neither  fear  nor  regret,  Lucius  Gary.  But  I  would  fain 
live  to  see  my  king  restored  to  his  throne,  and  the  servant  of 
my  God  restored  to  his  churches.  Nevertheless,  not  my  will 
be  done,  but  His,  for  HE  knows  best  who  knows  all  things." 

"  Amen  !"  said  Falkland  solemnly. 

"  And  amen !"  replied  Sunderland  a  moment  afterward.  "  And 
may  he  be  gracious  to  us  and  forget  not  us,  even  if  we  forget 
him,  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  day  that  is  before  us  ;  for  if 
you  dream  aright,  and  you  too  fall  before  me,  I  think  I  shall 
not  be  far  behind  you." 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  stretched  out  his  mail-clad  arms,  and 
in  one  close  embrace  commingled  stood  for  the  last  time  those 
three  noble  brothers. 

While  they  were  still  clasped  breast  to  breast,  sharp  and  shrill 
rang  the  trumpets  from  below  with  a  right  royal  flourish,  until 
from  "  turret  to  foundation-stone"  the  old  keep  resounded,  and 
almost  seemed  to  rock,  at  that  soul-stirring  summons. 

"  The  king  !  the  king  !  God  save  the  king !"  shouted  Car 
narvon,  casting  his  beaver  on  his  long  love-locks,  and  snatching 
his  heavy  sword  from  the  table. 


THE    KING.  23 

"  To  horse  and  away !  to  horse  and  away !"  cried  Sunderland. 

"  And  the  best  man  to-day  is  he  who  strikes  the  hardest," 
exclaimed  Falkland,  every  trace  of  melancholy  vanishing  from 
his  fine  face. 

Down  stairs  they  hurried,  and  as  they  reached  the  castle- 
court,  there  stood  the  king,  all  armed  except  his  helmet,  which 
a  page  held  behind,  with  the  George  in  its  blue  riband  about 
his  neck,  and  the  star  of  the  garter  on  his  breast,  about  to 
mount  a  splendid  snow-white  charger,  with  a  tall  greyhound  at 
his  side,  looking,  as  he  was  to  the  very  last,  every  inch  a  man, 
a  gentleman,  and  a  king. 

His  face,  that  serene,  melancholy  face — prophetic,  as  some 
thought,  of  a  violent  and  early  death — kindled  as  he  looked  on 
that  devoted  three,  and  his  manner,  usually  so  austere  and 
grave,  relaxed. 

"  My  noble  lords,  my  faithful  friends — "  Some  inward  feel 
ing  overpowered  the  stern,  grave  nature  of  the  man,  and  he 
could  say  no  more.  But  as  each  bent  his  knee  in  silence,  and 
left  a  teardrop  with  the  last  kiss  of  loyalty  upon  his  ungloved 
hand,  a  tear — a  tear  which  no  extremity  of  his  own  sorrows 
ever  wrung  from  those  calm,  steady  eyes — dropped  on  the 
head  of  Falkland. 

Again  the  trumpets  flourished,  and  every  cavalier  was  in  his 
saddle,  every  sword  out  of  its  scabbard. 

A  little  hour  and  they  stood  face  to  face,  those  kindred  hosts 
arrayed  beneath  the  glorious  sun  for  mutual  slaughter — but  no 
time  now  for  thought,  but  for  action  !  action !  action  ! 

Hot  Rupert's  sword  is  out,  his  banner  on  the  wind,  his  spur 
in  his  charger's  side.  "  God  and  the  king !  God  and  the  king !" 
and  out  went  the  unconquered  cavaliers,  an  overwhelming  tor 
rent  of  black  feathers,  and  blue  scarfs,  and  glittering  sword- 
points.  "  God  and  the  king !" — and  though  the  troopers  of  the 
parliament  fought  like  men,  and  rallied  again  and  again  when 


24  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

broken ;  and  still  resisted  after  regiments  were  regiments  no 
longer ;  and  fought  by  squadrons  first,  with  Sir  Philip  Staple- 
toil's  white  hat  conspicuous  in  their  van,  and  then  in  troops, 
and  at  last  in  little  knots,  back  to  back — still  who  were  they, 
that  they  should  match  the  matchless  cavaliers  of  England  ? 

In  the  words  of  the  gallant  Sunderland,  they  were  scattered 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  but  not  until  the  sun  had  already 
"  sloped  his  westering  wheel,"  and  verged  toward  the  horizon. 
And  now  the  day  seemed  to  be  all  but  won,  and  of  the  three 
not  one  had  fallen,  not  one  was  even  wounded. 

What'foot  as  yet  had  borne  the  brunt  of  the  charging  cava 
liers  ?  For  once,  Rupert  forgot  not  his  duty  in  the  fury  of  his 
triumph  ;  for  once,  he  restrained  his  madness  for  the  chase,  and 
wheeled  on  the  pikes  of  the  puritans,  lined  by  the  musketeers 
of  the  London  trainbands.  "  Charge  home  !  charge  home  ! 
God  and  the  king !  the  day  is  ours  !" 

But  theirs  it  was  not  yet ;  for  the  pikes  stood  like  a  wall  of 
solid  steel,  and  that  appalling  roll  of  revolving  English  fire, 
which  no  human  horse  has  ever  faced  unbroken,  rose  and  fell, 
rose  and  fell  incessant.  And  for  the  first  time  the  cavaliers 
were  hurled  back,  dauntless  though  bent  and  shattered,  like  a 
broken  billow  from  an  iron  coast.  There  went  down  Lucius 
Gary,  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  musket-bullet  from  the  scurvy 
London  trainbands.  There  went  down  Sunderland  above  him, 
his  avenger ;  for,  as  the  fatal  shot  was  discharged,  his  long, 
keen  broadsword  cleft  the  musketeer,  through  skullcap,  hair, 
and  skull,  down  to  his  eyes,  and  hurled  him  dead  upon  his 
noble  victim.  But  in  that  very  point  of  time,  one  pike-point 
pierced  his  charger's  poitrel,  and  drove  deep  into  his  counter ; 
a  second  found  the  unguarded  spot,  the  open  visor  of  the  gal 
lant  rider,  and  down  went  he,  unconscious  of  the  sudden  death- 
wound — 

"  Rider  and  horse,  friend  and  foe,  in  one  red  burial  blent." 


CARNARVON.  25 

Rallying  to  the  trumpet  and  the  royal  cry,  steadily  wheeled 
the  unconquered  cavaliers  over  the  dying  and  the  dead — again 
upon  the  serried  pikes,  again  upon  the  rolling  volleys.  And 
now  !  now — is  it  victory  ? — back  !  back  !  by  the  very  impetus 
of  their  own  charge  —  back!  back!  two  hundred  yards  and 
better,  they  bore  the  pikes  before  them  !  But  the  pikes  were 
still  unbroken,  and  the  fire  still  rolled  incessant,  tolling  the 
knell  of  many  a  patriot  soul  departed.  Again  the  cavaliers  re 
coiled  from  that  impenetrable  phalanx,  from  that  withering  fire. 

Bareheaded,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  dripping  from  head  to  foot 
with  the  blood  of  the  enemy,  but  unscathed,  as  the  bravest  often 
are,  Carnarvon  fought  the  foremost  and  fell  back  the  last  from 
that  second  charge  —  ignorant  still  of  the  fate  of  his  banded 
brothers,  such  was  the  tumult  and  confusion  of  the  fray.  He 
fell  back,  only  to  rally  his  men  once  more  unto  the  charge  ;  and 
as  he  galloped  after  them,  shouting,  adjuring,  praying  them, 
with  his  sword-point  lowered,  his  eyes  intent  on  the  halting 
and  fast-rallying  cavaliers,  and  thoughtless  of  any  enemy  at 
hand,  his  charger  started  from  a  confused  heap  of  dead  which 
lay  right  in  his  path. 

The  seat  of  the  earl  was  too  firm  to  be  shaken,  but  his  eyes 
wandered  for  a  moment  to  the  pile  of  carnage.  He  saw  and 
knew  his  friends,  and  saw  or  knew  no  more  on  earth.  For  at 
that  instant  a  trooper  of  the  parliamentarian  army,  not  one  of 
whom  had  been  seen  on  the  battle-field  for  hours,  came  strag 
gling  back  to  his  banners  ;  and  as  he  casually  passed  in  the 
rear  of  the  brave  earl,  recognised  him  on  the  instant,  and  drove 
his  sword,  a  coward  blow  from  behind,  through  his  unguarded 
side,  and  laid  him  dead  within  five  paces  of  his  faithful  fellows. 

Charge  after  charge,  again  and  again,  on  went  and  home 
went  Rupert !  But  in  vain,  all  in  vain !  for  those  pikes  still 
received  them — still,  as  they  recoiled,  advanced  unbroken — 
that  fire  still  rolled  on  incessant ! 

3 


26  THE    BROTHERS    IN    ARMS. 

Night  at  last,  that  common  friend  of  all  weary  and  disman 
tled  armies,  severed  them,  and  they  sank  down  to  sleep,  with 
no  watch-fires  kindled,  no  sentries  posted,  among  the  dying 
and  the  dead,  in  the  very  lines  where  they  had  fought  all  day 
exhausted  but  unconquered. 

No  note  was  taken  of  the  dead  that  night,  and  the  cold  moon 
alone  kept  watch  over  the  solemn  death-bed  of  the  devoted 
three.  But  when,  at  dawn  of  day,  Essex  decamped  in  haste, 
and  Rupert's  trumpets  sounded  boot  and  saddle  to  beat  up  the 
rear  of  the  retiring  army,  Carnarvon  was  not  there,  nor  Sun- 
derland,  nor  Falkland  :  and  all  men  knew  —  their  wars  over  — 
that  Sunderland's  hot  gallantry  was  cold,  Carnarvon's  latest 
wish  frustrated,  and  Falkland's  "  peace,  peace,"  won. 

Thus  fell  they,  the  three  noblest  victims,  for  opinion's  sake  — 
the  last  "  brothers  in  arms"  in  England — and  may  they  be  the 
last  for  ever ! 

With  them,  too,  fell  the  crown  ;  for  from  that  day  there  were 
no  moderate  men,  on  either  side,  for  many  a  year,  nor  any  real 
hope  of  victory  for  Charles  or  peace  for  England.  Therefore 
with  them  fell  for  a  while  the  crown,  as  never  may  it  fall  again 
while  the  round  world  holds  fast. 


t  jUnnl  $tst*ra; 


OR, 


1NGLEBOROUGH  HALL, 


Jnrnl  lvrg?nii  nf  tlj^  (tot  Ciuil  mr. 


r 


THE   RIVAL   SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

IN  one  of  those  sweet  glens,  half-pastoral,  half-sylvan,  which 
may  be  found  in  hundreds  channelling  the  steep  sides  of  the 
moorland  hills,  and  sending  down  the  tribute  of  their  pure  lime 
stone  springs  to  the  broad  rivers  which  fertilize,  no  less  than 
they  adorn,  the  lovely  vales  of  western  Yorkshire,  there  may 
be  seen  to  this  day  the  ruins  of  an  old  dwelling-house,  situate 
on  a  spot  so  picturesque,  so  wild,  and  yet  so  soft  in  its  roman 
tic,  features,  that  they  would  well  repay  the  traveller  for  a  brief 
halt,  who  but  too  often  hurries  onward  in  search  of  more  remote 
yet  certainly  not  greater  beauties. 

The  gorge,  within  the  mouth  of  which  the  venerable  pile 
was  seated,  opens  into  the  broader  valley  of  Wharfdale  from 
the  northeastern  side,  enjoying  the  full  light  and  warmth  of  the 
southern  sunshine  ;  and  although  very  narrow  at  its  origin, 
where  its  crystal  rivulet  springs  up  from  the  lonely  well-head, 
fringed  by  a  few  low  shrubs  of  birch  and  alder,  expands  here 
at  its  mouth  into  a  pretty  amphitheatre  or  basin  of  a  few  acres' 
circuit. 

A  wild  and  feathery  coppice  of  oak,  and  birch,  and  hazel, 
with  here  and  there  a  mountain-ash  showing  its  bright-red  ber- 

3* 


30  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

ries  through  the  red  foliage,  clothes  all  the  lower  part  of  the 
surrounding  slopes  ;  while,  far  above,  the  seamed  and  shattered 
faces  of  the  gray  slaty  limestone  rise  up  like  artificial  walls, 
their  summits  crowned  with  the  fair  purple  heather,  and  every 
nook  and  cranny  in  their  sides  crowded  with  odorous  wild 
flowers.  Within  the  circuits  of  these  natural  limits,  sheltering 
it  from  every  wind  of  heaven  except  the  gentle  south,  the  turf 
lies  smooth  and  even,  as  if  it  were  a  cultured  lawn ;  while  a 
few  rare  exotic  shrubs,  now  all  run  out  of  shape,  and  bare  and 
straggling,  indicate  yet  the  time  when  it  was  a  fair  shrubbery, 
tended  by  gentle  hands,  and  visited  by  young  and  lovely  beings, 
now  cold  in  their  untimely  sepulchres. 

The  streamlet,  which  comes  gushing  down  the  glen  with  its 
clear,  copious  flow,  boiling  and  murmuring  about  the  large  gray 
boulders,  which  everywhere  obstruct  its  channel,  making  a 
thousand  mimic  cataracts,  and  wakening  ever  a  wild,  mirthful 
music,  sweeps  here  quite  close  to  the  foot  of  the  eastern  cliff, 
the  feathery  branches  of  the  oakwood  dipping  their  foliage  in 
its  eddies  ;  and  then,  just  as  it  issues  forth  into  the  open  cham 
paign,  wheels  round  in  a  half-circle,  completely  isolating  the 
little  amphitheatre  above  mentioned,  except  at  one  point,  hard 
beneath  the  opposite  hill-face,  where  a  small,  winding  horse- 
track,  engrossing  the  whole  space  between  the  streamlet  and 
the  limestone  rock,  gives  access  to  the  lone  demesne. 

A  small,  green  hillock,  sloping  down  gently  to  the  southward, 
fills  the  embracing  arms  of  the  bright  brook,  around  the  nor 
thern  base  of  which  is  scattered  a  little  grove  of  the  most  mag 
nificent  and  noblest  sycamores  that  I  have  ever  seen  ;  but  on 
the  other  side,  which  yet  retains  its  pristine  character  of  a 
smooth,  open  lawn,  there  are  no  obstacles  to  the  view  over  the 
wide  valley,  except  three  old  gnarled  thorn-bushes,  uncommon 
from  their  size,  and  the  dense  luxuriance  of  their  matted 
greenery. 


A.    YORKSHIRE    LANDSCAPE.  31 

It  was  upon  the  summit  of  this  little  knoll  that  the  old  home 
stead  stood,  whose  massive  ruins  of  red  freestone,  all  overgrown 
with  briers  and  tall,  rank  grass  and  dock-leaves,  deface  the  spot 
which  they  adorned  of  old ;  and,  when  it  was  erect,  in  all  its 
fair  proportions,  the  scene  which  it  overlooked  and  its  own 
natural  attractiveness  rendered  it  one  of  the  loveliest  residences 
in  all  the  north  of  England. 

The  wide,  rich,  gentle  valley,  all  meadow-land  and  pasture, 
without  one  brown,  ploughed  field  to  mar  its  velvet  green ;  the 
tall,  thick  hawthorn  hedges,  with  their  long  lines  of  hedgerow 
timber,  oak,  ash,  and  elm,  waving  above  the  smooth  enclosures  ; 
the  broad,  clear,  tranquil  river,  flashing  out  like  a  silver  mirror 
through  the  green  foliage  ;  the  scattered  farmhouses,  each  nes 
tled  as  it  were  among  its  sheltering  orchards  ;  the  village  spire 
shooting  up  from  the  clump  of  giant  elms,  which  overshadowed 
the  old  graveyard ;  the  steep,  long  slope  on  the  other  side  of 
the  vale,  or  strath  as  it  would  be  called  in  Scotland,  all  mapped 
out  to  the  eye  with  its  green  fences  and  wide,  hanging  woods  ; 
and  far  beyond  the  rounded  summits  of  the  huge  moorland  hills, 
ridge  above  ridge,  purple,  and  grand,  and  massive,  but  less  and 
less  distinct  as  they  recede  from  the  eye,  and  melt  away  at  last 
into  the  far  blue  distance  —  such  was  the  picture  which  its  win 
dows  overlooked  of  old,  and  which  still  laughs  as  gayly  as  of 
yore,  in  the  glad  sunshine,  around  its  mouldering  walls  and 
lonely  hearthstone. 

But  if  it  is  fair  now,  and  lovely,  what  was  it,  as  it  showed  in 
the  good  old  days  of  King  Charles,  before  the  iron  hand  of  civil 
war  had  pressed  so  heavily  upon  England  ?  The  groves  of 
sycamores  stood  there,  as  they  stand  now  in  the  prime  and 
luxuriance  of  their  sylvan  manhood  ;  for  they  are  now  waxing 
aged,  and  somewhat  gray  and  stag-horned ;  and  the  thorn- 
bushes  sheltered,  as  they  do  now,  whole  choirs  of  thrushes  and 
blackbirds  ;  but  all  the  turf,  beneath  the  scattered  trees,  and 


32  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

on  the  sunny  slope,  was  so  shorn,  and  rolled,  and  watered,  that 
it  was  smooth  and  even,  and  far  softer  than  the  most  costly 
carpet  that  ever  wooed  the  step  of  Persian  beauty. 

The  hall  was  a  square  building,  not  very  large,  and  of  the 
old  Elizabethan  style,  with  two  irregular  additions — wings  as 
they  might  be  called — of  the  same  architecture,  though  of  a 
later  period ;  and  its  deep-embayed  oriel  windows,  with  their 
fantastic  millions  of  carved  freestone,  its  tall,  quaint  chimneys, 
and  its  low  porch  with  overhanging  canopy  and  clustered  col 
umns,  rendered  it  singularly  picturesque  and  striking. 

The  little  green  within  the  gorge  of  the  upper  glen,  which  is 
so  wildly  beautiful  in  its  present  situation,  left  as  it  is  to  the 
unaided  hand  of  nature,  was  then  a  perfect  paradise  ;  for  an 
exquisite  taste  had  superintended  its  conversion  into  a  sort  of 
untrained  garden.  An  eye,  well  used  to  note  effects,  had 
marked  its  natural  capabilities,  and,  adding  artificial  beauties, 
had  never  trenched  upon  the  character  of  the  spot  by  anything 
incongruous  or  startling. 

Rare  plants,  rich-flowering  shrubs,  and  scented  herbs,  were 
indeed  scattered  with  a  lavish  hand  about  its  precincts,  but  were 
so  scattered  that  they  seemed  the  genuine  production  of  the 
soil.  The  Spanish  cistus  had  been  taught  to  carpet  the  wild 
crags,  in  conjunction  with  the  native  thyme  and  heather ;  the 
arbutus  and  laurestinus  had  been  brought  from  afar,  to  vie  with 
the  mountain-ash  and  holly  ;  the  clematis  and  the  sweet-scented 
vine  blended  their  tendrils  with  the  rich  English  honeysuckle 
and  the  luxuriant  ivy  ;  rare  lotuses  might  be  seen  floating,  with 
their  azure-colored  cups  and  broad  green  leaves,  upon  the  glassy 
basins  into  which  the  mountain  streamlet  had  been  taught  to 
expand,  among  the  white  wild  water-lilies  and  the  bright-yellow 
clusters  of  the  marsh-marigolds  :  roses  of  every  hue  and  scent, 
from  the  dark-crimson  of  Damascus  to  the  pale  blush  of  soft 
Provence,  grew  side  by  side  with  the  wild  wood-brier  and  eg- 


INGLEBOROUGH    HALL.  33 

lantine  ;  and  many  a  rustic  seat  of  mossy  stone,  or  roots  and 
imbarked  branches,  invited  the  loitering  visiter  in  every  shad 
owy  angle. 

There  was  no  spot,  in  all  the  north  of  England,  whereon  the 
winter  frowned  so  lightly  as  on  those  sheltered  precincts  — 
there  was  no  spot  whereon  spring  smiled  so  early,  and  with 
so  bright  an  aspect — wherein  the  summer  so  long  lingered, 
pouring  her  gorgeous  flowers,  rich  with  her  spicy  breath,  into 
the  very  lap  of  autumn.  It  was  indeed  a  sweet  spot,  and  as 
happy  as  it  was  sweet  and  beautiful — before  the  curse  of  civil 
war  was  poured  upon  the  groaning  land,  with  its  dread  train  of 
foul  and  fiendish  ministers  :  and  yet  it  was  not  war,  nor  any  of 
its  direct  consequences,  that  turned  that  happy  home  into  a  ruin 
and  desolation. 

It  was  not  war — unless  the  struggles  of  the  human  heart — 
the  conflict  of  the  fierce  and  turbulent  passions — the  strife  of 
principles,  of  motives,  of  desires,  within  the  secret  soul,  may 
be  called  war — as  indeed  they  might,  and  that  with  no  figura 
tive  tongue  ;  for  they  are  the  hottest,  the  most  devastating,  the 
most  fatal,  of  all  that  bear  that  ominous  and  cruel  appellation. 

Such  was  the  aspect  then  of  Ingleborough  hall,  at  the  period 
when  it  was  perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  and  when,  as  is  but 
too  often  the  case,  its  beauties  were  on  the  very  point  of  being 
brought  to  a  close  for  ever.  The  family  which  owned  the  man 
or —  for  the  possessions  attached  to  the  old  homestead  were 
large,  and  the  authority  arising  from  them  extended  over  a  great 
part  of  Upper  Wharfdale  —  was  one  of  those  old  English  races 
which,  though  not  noble  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word,  are 
yet  so  ancient,  and  so  indissolubly  connected  with  the  soil,  that 
they  may  justly  be  comprised  among  the  aristocracy  of  the  land. 
The  name  was  Saxon  ;  and  it  was  generally  believed,  and  prob 
ably  with  truth,  that  the  date  of  the  name  and  of  its  connection 
with  that  estate  was  at  the  least  coeval  with  the  Conquest.  To 


34  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

what  circumstances  it  was  owing  that  the  Hawkwoods — for 
such  was  the  time-honored  appellation  of  the  race  —  had  re 
tained  possession  of  their  fair  demesne,  when  all  the  land  was 
allotted  out  to  feudal  barons  and  fat  priests,  can  never  now  be 
ascertained,  nor  does  it  indeed  signify  ;  yet  that  it  was  to  some 
honorable  cause,  some  service  rendered,  or  some  high  exploit, 
may  be  fairly  presumed  from  the  fact  that  the  mitred  potentate 
of  Bolton  abbey,  who  levied  his  tithes  far  and  near,  throughout 
those  fertile  valleys,  had  no  claim  on  the  fruits  of  Ingleborough. 
During  the  ages  that  had  passed  since  the  advent  of  the  Nor 
man  William,  the  Hawkwoods  had  never  lacked  male  repre 
sentatives  to  sustain  the  dignity  of  their  race  ;  and  gallantly 
had  they  sustained  it :  for  in  full  many  a  lay  and  legend,  ay ! 
and  in  grave,  cold  history  itself,  the  name  of  Hawkwood  might 
be  found  side  by  side  with  the  more  sonorous  appellations  of 
the  Norman  feudatories — the  Ardens,  and  Mauleverers,  and 
Vavasours — which  fill  the  chronicles  of  border  warfare. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  write,  however,  the  family  had  no 
male  scion.  The  last  heir-male,  Ralph  Hawkwood,  had  died 
some  years  before,  full  of  years  and  of  domestic  honors  —  a 
zealous  sportsman,  a  loyal  subject,  a  kind  landlord,  a  good 
friend.  His  lot  had  fallen  in  quiet  times  and  pleasant  places  ; 
and  he  lived  happily,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  his  family,  at 
peace  with  all  men.  His  wife,  a  calm,  placid  dame,  who  had 
in  her  young  days  been  the  beauty  of  the  shire,  survived  him ; 
and  spent  her  whole  time,  as  she  devoted  her  whole  mind  and 
spirit,  in  educating  the  two  daughters,  joint  heiresses  of  the  old 
manor-house,  "who  were  left  by  their  father's  death — two  bright- 
eyed,  fair-haired  prattlers  —  dependent  for  protection  on  the 
strong  love,  but  frail  support,  of  their  widowhood  mother. 


THE    MOTHER.  35 


CHAPTER    II. 

YEARS  passed  away,  and  with  their  flight  the  two  fair  chil 
dren  were  matured  into  two  sweet  arid  lovely  women  ;  yet  the 
same  fleeting  suns,  which  brought  to  them  complete  and  per 
fect  youth,  were  fraught  to  others  with  decay,  and  all  the  cark- 
ing  cares  and  querulous  ailments  of  old  age.  The  mother  who 
had  watched,  with  keen  solicitude,  over  their  budding  infancy, 
over  the  promise  of  their  lovely  childhood,  lived  indeed  ;  but 
lived  not  to  see  or  understand  the  full  accomplishment  of  that 
bright  promise.  Even  before  the  elder  girl  had  reached  the 
dawn  of  womanhood,  palsy  had  shaken  the  enfeebled  limbs, 
and  its  accustomed  follower — mental  debility — had  in  no  small 
degree  impaired  the  intellect  of  her  surviving  parent ;  but  long 
before  her  sister  had  reached  her  maturity,  the  limbs  were 
helplessly  immovable,  the  mind  was  wholly  clouded  and  es 
tranged. 

It  was  not  now  the  wandering  and  uncertain  darkness,  that 
flits  across  the  veiled  horizon  of  the  mind  alternately  with  vivid 
gleams,  flashes  of  memory,  and  intellect,  brighter,  perhaps,  than 
ever  visited  the  spirit,  until  its  partial  aberration  had  jarred  its 
vital  principles.  It  was  that  deep  and  utter  torpor,  blanker 
than  sleep,  and  duller — for  no  dreams  seem  to  mingle  with  its 
day-long  lethargy — that  absolute  paralysis  of  all  the  faculties 
of  soul  and  body,  which  is  so  beautifully  painted  by  the  great 
Roman  satirist,  as  the 

Membrorum  damno  major  dementia,  quse  nee 
Nomina  scrvorum,  nee  vultum  agnoscit  amici 
Cum  quo  prseterita  crenavit  nocte,  nee  illos 
Quos  genuif,  quos  eduxit — 


36  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

that  still,  sad,  patient,  silent  suffering,  which  sits  from  day  to 
day  in  the  one  usual  chair,  unconscious  of  itself,  and  almost  so 
of  all  around  it ;  easily  pleased  by  trifles,  which  it  forgets  as 
soon ;  deriving  its  sole,  real,  and  tangible  enjoyment  from  the 
doze  in  the  summer  sunshine,  or  by  the  sparkling  hearth  of 
winter.  Such  was  the  mother  now  —  so  utterly,  so  hopelessly 
dependent  on  those  bright  beings,  whose  infancy  she  had  nursed 
so  devotedly — and  well  was  that  devotedness  now  compensa 
ted  ;  for  day  and  night,  winter  and  summer,  did  those  sweet 
girls  by  turns  watch  over  the  frail  querulous  sexagenarian  — 
never  both  leaving  her  at  once,  one  sleeping  while  the  other 
watched,  attentive  ever  to  her  ceaseless  cravings,  patient  and 
mild  to  meet  her  angry  and  uncalled-for  lamentations. 

You  would  have  thought  a  seclusion  so  entire,  from  all  so 
ciety  of  their  equals,  must  have  prevented  their  acquiring  those 
usual  accomplishments,  those  necessary  arts,  w^hich  every  Eng 
lish  gentlewoman  is  presumed  to  possess,  as  things  of  course 
— that  they  must  have  grown  up  mere  ignorant,  unpolished 
country  lasses,  without  taste  or  aspiration  beyond  the  small 
routine  of  their  dull,  daily  duties — that  long  confinement  must 
have  broken  the  higher  and  more  spiritual  parts  of  their  fine 
natural  minds — that  they  must  have  become  mere  moping 
household  drudges  ;  and  so  to  think  would  be  so  very  natural, 
that  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  conceive  how  it  was  brought  to 
pass,  that  the  very  opposite  of  this  should  have  been  the  re 
sult.  The  very  opposite  it  was,  however — for  as  there  were 
not  in  the  whole  West  Riding  two  girls  more  beautiful  than 
Annabel  and  Marian  Hawkwood,  so  were  there  surely  none  so 
highly  educated,  so  happy  in  themselves,  so  eminently  calcu 
lated  to  render  others  happy. 

Accomplished  as  musicians,  both,  though  Annabel  especially, 
excelled  in  instrumental  music,  while  her  young  sister  was  un 
rivalled  in  voice  and  execution  as  a  songstress  ;  both  skilled  in 


THE    DAUGHTERS.  37 

painting ;  and  if  not  poetesses,  insomuch  as  to  be  stringers  of 
words  and  rhymes,  certainly  such,  and  that,  too,  of  no  mean 
order,  in  the  wider  and  far  higher  acceptation  of  the  word. 
For  their  whole  souls  were  attuned  to  the  very  highest  key  of 
sensibility  ;  romantic,  not  in  the  weak  and  ordinary  meaning  of 
the  term,  but  as  admirers  of  all  things  high,  and  pure,  and  no 
ble  ;  worshippers  of  the  beautiful,  whether  it  were  embodied 
in  the  scenery  of  their  native  glens,  in  the  rock,  the  stream, 
the  forest,  the  sunshine  that  clothed  all  of  them  in  a  rich  garb 
of  glory,  or  the  dread  storm  that  veiled  them  all  in  gloom  and 
terror  —  or  in  the  masterpieces  of  the  schools  of  painting,  and 
of  sculpture  —  or  in  the  pages  of  the  great,  the  glorious  of  all 
ages  —  or  in  the  deeds  of  men,  perils  encountered  hardily, 
sufferings  constantly  endured,  sorrows  assuaged  by  charitable 
generosity.  Such  were  they  in  the  strain  and  tenor  of  their 
minds  ;  gentle,  moreover,  as  the  gentlest  of  created  things  ; 
humble  to  their  inferiors,  but  with  a  proud,  and  self-respecting, 
and  considerate  humility ;  open,  and  free,  and  fra.nk,  toward 
their  equals,  but  proud,  although  not  wanting  in  loyalty  and 
proper  reverence  for  the  great,  and  almost  haughty  of  demeanor 
to  their  superiors,  when  they  encountered  any  such,  which 
was,  indeed,  of  rare  and  singular  occurrence. 

It  was  a  strange  thing,  indeed,  that  these  lone  girls  should 
have  possessed  such  characters  ;  so  strongly  marked,  so  pow 
erful,  and  striking — should  have  acquired  accomplishments  so 
many,  and  so  various  in  their  nature.  It  will  appear,  perhaps, 
even  stranger  to  merely  superficial  thinkers,  that  the  formation 
of  these  powerful  characters  had  been  for  the  most  part  brought 
about  by  the  very  circumstances  which  would  at  first  have  ap 
peared  most  unpropitious — their  solitary  habits,  namely,  and 
their  seclusion  —  almost  absolute  seclusion  —  from  the  gay 
world  of  fashion  and  of  folly !  The  large  and  opulent  county 
in  which  their  patrimony  lay,  was  indeed  then,  as  now,  studded 

4 


38  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

with  the  estates,  the  manors,  and  the  parks  of  the  richest  and 
the  noblest  of  England's  aristocracy.  Yet  the  deep  glens  and 
lofty  moorlands,  among  which  Ingleborough  hall  was  situated, 
are  even  to  this  day  a  lonely  and  sequestered  region  ;  no  great 
post-road  winds  through  their  devious  passes,  and  although  in 
the  close  vicinity  of  large  and  populous  towns,  they  are,  even 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  but  little  visited,  and  are  occupied 
by  a  population  singularly  primitive  and  pastoral  in  all  its 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Much  more  then — in  those  days  when 
carriages  were  seen  but  rarely  beyond  the  streets  of  the  metro 
polis,  when  roads  were  wild  and  rugged,  and  intercourse  be 
tween  the  nearest  places,  unless  of  more  than  ordinary  magni 
tude,  difficult  and  uncertain — was  that  wild  district  to  be  deemed 
secluded.  So  much  so,  indeed,  was  this  the  case,  that  at  the 
time  of  which  I  write,  there  were  not  within  the  circle  of 
some  twenty  miles,  two  families  of  equal  rank,  or  filling  the 
same  station  of  society  with  the  Hawkwoods.  This,  had  the 
family  been  in  such  circumstances  of  domestic  health  and  hap 
piness  as  would  have  permitted  the  girls  to  mingle  in  the  gay- 
eties  of  the  neighborhood,  would  have  been  a  severe  and  serious 
misfortune  ;  as  they  must,  from  the  continual  intercourse  with 
their  inferiors,  have  contracted,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  a 
grossness  of  both  mind  and  manner  ;  and  would,  most  probably, 
have  fallen  into  that  most  destructive  habit — destructive  to  the 
mind  I  mean,  and  to  all  chance  of  progress  or  advancement — the 
love  of  queening  it  in  low  society.  It  was,  therefore,  under 
their  circumstances,  including  the  loss  of  one  parent,  and  the 
entire  bereavement  of  the  other,  fortunate  in  no  small  degree 
that  they  were  compelled  to  seek  their  pleasures  and  their  oc 
cupations,  no  less  than  their  duties,  within  the  sphere  of  the 
domestic  circle. 

The  mother  who  was  now  so  feeble  and  so  helpless,  though 
never  a  person  of  much  intellectual  energy,  or  indeed  of  much 


39 

force  of  any  kind,  was  yet  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  a 
lady.  She  had  seen  something  of  the  great  world  apart  from 
the  rural  glens  which  witnessed  her  decline  ;  had  mingled  with 
the  gay  and  noble  even  at  the  court  of  England  ;  and  being 
possessed  of  more  than  ordinary  beauty,  had  been  a  favorite, 
and  in  some  degree  a  belle.  From  her,  then,  had  her  daugh 
ters  naturally  and  unconsciously  imbibed  that  easy,  graceful 
finish,  which,  more  than  all  beside,  is  the  true  stamp  of  gentle 
birth  and  bearing.  Long  before  children  can  be  brought  to 
comprehend  general  principles  or  rules  of  convention,  they  can 
and  do  acquire  habits,  by  that  strange  tact  of  observance,  which 
certainly  commences  at  a  stage  so  early  of  their  young  frail 
existence,  that  we  can  not  by  any  effort  mark  its  first  dawning 
— habits,  which  thus  acquired  can  hardly  be  effaced  at  all — 
which  will  endure  unaltered,  and  invariable,  when  tastes  and 
practices,  and  modes  of  thought  and  action,  contracted  long, 
long  afterward,  have  faded  quite  away  and  been  forgotten. 
Thus  was  it  then,  with  these  young  creatures,  while  they 
were  yet  mere  girls,  with  all  the  pure  right  impulses  of  child 
hood  bursting  out  fresh  and  fair,  they  had  been  trained  up  in 
the  midst  of  high,  and  honorable,  and  correct  associations. 
Naught  low,  or  mean,  or  little,  naught  selfish,  or  dishonest,  or 
corrupt,  had  ever  so  much  as  come  near  to  them  ;  in  the  sight 
of  virtue,  and  in  the  practice  of  politeness,  they  had  shot  up 
into  maturity  ;  and  their  maturity,  of  consequence,  was  virtuous 
and  polished. 

In  after-years  devoted  as  they  were  to  that  sick  mother,  they 
had  no  chance  of  unlearning  anything,  and  thus  from  day  to 
day  they  went  on  gaming  fresh  graces,  as  it  were,  by  deduction 
from  the  foregone  teaching,  arid  from  the  fact  that,  purity  and 
nature  when  united  must  be  graceful — until  the  proudest  courts 
of  Europe  could  have  shown  nothing,  even  in  their  most  diffi 
cult  circles,  that  could  surpass,  even  if  it  could  vie  with,  the 


40  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

easy,  artless  frankness,  the  soft  and  finished  courtesy,  the  una 
bashed,  yet  modest  grace,  of  those  two  mountain  maidens. 

At  the  period  when  my  sad  tale  commences — for  it  is  no 
less  sad  than  true — the  sisters  had  just  reached  the  young  yet 
perfect  bloom  of  mature  womanhood  —  the  elder,  Annabel,  hav 
ing  attained  her  twentieth  summer,  her  sister  Marian,  being 
exactly  one  year  younger  ;  and  certainly  two  sweeter  or  more 
lovely  girls  could  not  be  pictured  or  imagined — not  even  in  the 
brightest  moments  of  the  painter's  or  poet's  inspiration.  They 
were  both  tall  and  beautifully  formed — both  had  sweet  low- 
toned  voices — that  excellent  thing  in  woman!  but  here  all 
personal  resemblance  ended  ;  for  Annabel,  the  elder,  had  a 
complexion  pure  and  transparent  as  the  snow  of  the  untrodden 
glacier  before  the  sun  has  kissed  it  into  roseate  blushes,  and 
quite  as  colorless — her  features  were  of  the  finest  classic  out 
line.  The  smooth  fair  brow,  the  perfect  Grecian  nose,  the 
short  curve  of  the  upper  lip,  the  exquisite  arch  of  the  small 
mouth,  the  chiselled  lines  of  the  soft  rounded  chin,  might  have 
served  for  a  model  to  a  sculptor,  whereby  to  mould  a  mountain 
nymph  or  Naiad.  Her  rich  luxuriant  hair  was  of  a  light  and 
sunny  brown  ;  her  eyes  of  a  clear  and  lustrous  blue  with  a  soft 
languid  and  half-melancholy  tenderness,  for  their  more  usual 
expression,  which  suited  well  with  the  calm  placid  air  that 
was  almost  habitual  to  her  beautiful  features.  To  this  no  con 
trast  more  complete  could  have  been  offered,  than  by  the  widely 
'different  style  of  Marian's  loveliness.  Though  younger  than 
her  sister,  her  figure  was  more  full  and  rounded  —  so  much  so, 
that  it  reached  the  very  point  where  symmetry  is  combined  with 
voluptuousness  ;  yet  was  there  nothing  in  the  least  degree  vo 
luptuous  in  the  expression  of  her  bright  artless  face.  Her  fore 
head,  higher  than  Annabel's  and  broader,  was  as  smooth  and 
as  white  as  polished  marble  ;  her  brows  were  well  defined  and 
black  as  ebony ;  as  were  the  long,  long  lashes  that  fringed  her 


MARIAN.  41 

laughing  eyes — eyes  of  the  brightest,  lightest  azure,  that  ever 
glanced  with  merriment  or  melted  into  love  —  her  nose  was 
small  and  delicate,  but  turned  a  little  upward,  so  as  to  add, 
however,  rather  than  detract  from  the  tout  ensemble  of  her  arch, 
roguish  beauty  ;  her  mouth  was  not  very  small,  but  exquisitely 
formed,  with  lips  redder  than  anything  in  nature,  to  which  lips 
can  be  well  compared  ;  and  filled  with  teeth,  regular,  white, 
and  beautifully  even.  Fair  as  her  sister's,  and  like  hers,  show 
ing  everywhere  the  tiny  veins  of  azure  meandering  below  the 
milky  skin,  Marian's  complexion  was  yet  as  bright  as  morning, 
with  faint  rosy  tints,  and  red  warm  blushes,  succeeding  one 
another,  or  vanishing  away,  and  leaving  the  cheek  pearly  white 
as  one  emotion  followed  and  effaced  another  in  her  pure  inno 
cent  mind. 

Her  hair,  profuse  in  its  luxuriant  flow,  was  of  a  deep,  dark 
brown,  that  might  almost  have  been  called  black — but  for  a 
thousand  glancing  golden  lights,  and  warm,  rich  shadows,  that 
varied  its  smooth  surface  with  the  varying  sunshine  —  and 
was  worn  in  a  thick,  massive  plait,  low  down  in  the  neck  be 
hind,  while  on  either  side  the  brow  it  was  trained  off  and  taught 
to  cluster  in  front  of  each  tiny  ear,  in  an  abundant  maze  of  in 
terwoven  curls,  close  and  mysteriously  enlaced,  as  are  the  ten 
drils  of  the  wild  vine,  which  fluttering  on  each  warm  and 
blushing  cheek,  fell  down  the  swan-like  neck  in  heavy  natural 
ringlets. 

But  to  describe  the  features  is  to  give  no  idea,  in  the  least, 
of  Marian's  real  beauty.  There  was  a  radiant,  dazzling  lustre, 
that  leaped  out  of  her  every  feature,  lightening  from  her  quick 
speaking  eyes,  and  playing  in  the  dimples  of  her  bewitching 
smile,  so  intoxicating  to  the  beholder,  that  he  would  dwell  upon 
her  face  entranced,  and  know  that  it  was  lovely,  and  feel  that 
it  was  far  more  lovely,  far  more  enthralling,  than  any  he  had 
ever  looked  upon  before.  Yet,  when  without  the  sphere  of 

4* 


42  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

that  enchantment,  he  would  be  all  unable  to  say  wherein  con 
sisted  its  unmatched  attraction. 

Between  the  natural  disposition  and  temperaments  of  the  two 
sisters,  there  was,  perhaps,  even  a  wider  difference  than  be 
tween  the  characteristics  of  their  personal  beauty,  for  Annabel 
was  calm  and  mild,  and  singularly  placid  ;  not  in  her  manners 
only,  but  in  the  whole  tenor  of  her  thoughts,  and  words,  and 
actions — there  was  a  sort  of  gentle  melancholy,  that  was  not 
altogether  melancholy  either,  pervading  her  every  tone  of  voice, 
her  every  change  of  feature.  She  was  not  exactly  grave,  or 
pensive,  or  subdued ;  for  she  could  smile  very  joyously  at  times, 
could  act  upon  emergencies  with  readiness,  and  quickness,  and 
decision  ;  and  was  at  all  times  prompt  in  the  expression  of  her 
confirmed  sentiments.  But  there  was  a  very  remarkable  tran 
quillity  in  her  mode  of  doing  everything  she  did ;  betokening 
fully  the  presence  of  a  decided  principle,  directing  her  at  every 
step,  so  that  she  was  rarely  agitated,  even  by  accidents  of  the 
most  sudden  and  alarming  character,  and  never  actuated  by  any 
rapid  impulse. 

The  very  opposite  of  this  was  Marian  Hawkwood  ;  for  al 
though  quite  as  upright  and  pure-minded  as  her  sister — and 
Avhat  is  more,  of  a  temper  quite  as  amiable  and  sweet,  yet  was 
her  mood  as  changeful  as  an  April  day ;  although  it  was  more 
used  to  mirth  and  joyous  laughter  than  to  frowns  or  tears  either, 
yet  had  she  tears  as  ready  at  any  tale  of  sorrow,  as  are  the 
fountains  of  the  spring-shower  in  the  cloud,  and  eloquent  frowns 
and  eyes  that  lightened  their  quick  indignation  at  any  outrage, 
or  oppression,  or  high-handed  deed.  Her  cheek  would  crimson 
with  the  tell-tale  blood,  her  flesh  would  seem  to  thrill  upon  her 
bones,  her  voice  would  choke,  and  her  eyes  swim  with  sympa 
thetic  drops,  whenever  she  read,  or  spoke,  or  heard  of  any  110- 
ble  deed,  whether  of  gallant  daring,  or  of  heroic  self-denial. 
Her  tongue  was  prompt  always  as  the  sword  of  the  knight-errant 


DIFFERENCE    OF    CHARACTER.  43 

to  shelter  the  defenceless,  to  shield  the  innocent,  to  right  the 
wronged,  and  sometimes  to  avenge  the  absent.  Artless  herself, 
and  innocent  in  every  thought  and  feeling,  she  set  no  guard 
on  either  but  as  she  felt  and  thought,  so  she  spoke  out  and 
acted,  fearless,  even  as  she  was  unconscious  of  any  wrong ; 
defying  misconstruction,  and  half  inclined  to  doubt  the  possi 
bility  of  evil  in  the  minds  of  others  ;  so  foreign  did  it  seem,  and 
so  impossible  to  her  own  natural,  and,  as  it  were,  instinctive 
sense  of  right. 

Yet  although  such,  in  all  respects,  as  I  have  striven  to  de 
pict  them,  the  one  all  quick  and  flashing  impulse,  the  other  all 
reflective  and  considerate  principle,  it  was  most  wonderful  how 
seldom  there  was  any  clashing  of  opinion,  or  diversity  of  judg 
ment,  as  to  what  was  to  be  done,  what  left  undone,  between  the 
lovely  sisters.  Marian  would  it  is  true,  often  jump  at  once  to 
conclusions,  and  act  rapidly  upon  them  too,  at  which  the  more 
reflective  Annabel  would  arrive  only  after  some  consideration ; 
but  it  did  not  occur  more  often  that  the  one  had  reason  to  re 
pent  of  her  precipitation,  than  the  other  of  her  over-caution. 
Neither,  indeed,  had  much  cause  for  remorse  of  this  kind  at 
all ;  for  all  the  impulses  of  the  one,  all  the  thoughts  and  prin 
ciples  of  the  other,  were  alike  pure  and  kindly.  With  words, 
however,  it  was  not  quite  the  same  ;  for  it  must  be  admitted, 
that  Marian  oftentimes  said  things,  how  unfrequently  soever  she 
did  aught,  which  she  would  willingly  have  recalled  afterward. 
Not,  indeed,  that  she  ever  said  anything  unkind,  or  wrong  in 
itself,  and  rarely  anything  that  could  give  pain  to  another,  un 
less  that  pain  were  richly  merited  indeed  ;  but  that  she  gradu 
ally  came  to  learn — long  before  she  learned  to  restrain  her 
impulses  —  that  it  may  be  very  often  unwise  to  speak,  what  in 
itself  is  wise —  and  very  often,  if  not  wrong,  yet  certainly 
imprudent,  and  of  evil  consequence,  to  give  loud  utterance  even 
to  right  opinions. 


44  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    III. 

SUCH  were  the  persons,  such  the  dispositions  of  the  fair 
heiresses  of  Ingleborough  at  the  time  when  they  had  attained  the 
ages  I  have  specified ;  and  certainly,  although  their  spheres  of 
usefulness  would  have  appeared  at  first  sight,  circumscribed, 
and  the  range  of  their  enjoyments  very  narrow,  there  rarely 
have  been  seen  two  happier  or  more  useful  beings  than  An 
nabel  and  Marian  Hawkwood,  in  this  wide  world  of  sin  and 
sorrow. 

The  care  of  their  bereaved  and  hapless  parent  occupied,  it 
is  true,  the  greater  portion  of  their  time  ;  yet  they  found  many 
leisure  hours  to  devote  to  visiting  the  poor,  aiding  the  wants 
of  the  needy,  consoling  the  sorrows  of  those  who  mourned,  and 
sympathizing  with  the  pleasures  of  the  happy,  among  their 
humble  neighbors.  To  them  this  might  be  truly  termed  a  work 
of  love  and  pleasure  ;  for  it  is  questionable  whether  from  any 
other  source  the  lovely  girls  derived  a  higher  or  more  satisfac 
tory  enjoyment,  than  from  their  hours  of  charity  among  their 
village  pensioners. 

Next  in  the  scale  of  happiness  stood,  doubtless,  the  society 
of  the  old  vicar  of  that  pastoral  parish  ;  a  man  who  had  been 
their  father's  friend  and  counsellor  in  those  young  days  of  col 
lege  friendship,  when  the  fresh  heart  is  uppermost  in  all,  and 
selfishness  a  dormant  passion ;  a  man  old  enough  almost  to 
have  been  their  grandsire,  but  with  a  heart  as  young  and  as 
cheery  as  a  boy's  —  an  intellect  accomplished  in  the  deepest 
lore  of  the  schools,  both  classical  and  scientific,  and  skilled 
thoroughly  in  all  the  niceties  and  graces  of  French,  and  Span 
ish,  and  Italian  literature  —  a  man  who  had  known  courts  and 


TOO    HAPPY    TO    LAST.  45 

camps,  too,  for  a  short  space  in  his  youth  ;  who  had  seen  much 
and  suffered  much,  and  yet  enjoyed,  not  a  little,  in  his  acquaint 
ance  with  the  world  ;  and  who,  from  sights,  and  sufferings,  and 
enjoyments,  had  learned  that  if  there  is  much  evil,  there  is  yet 
more  of  good,  even  in  this  world — had  learned,  while  rigid  to 
his  own  faults,  to  be  most  lenient  to  his  neighbor's  failings  — 
had  learned  that  charity  should  be  the  fruit  of  wisdom!  —  and 
had  learned  all  this  only  to  practise  it  in  all  his  daily  walks,  to 
inculcate  it  in  all  his  weekly  lessons. 

This  aged  man,  and  his  scarce  less  aged  wife,  living  hardly 
a  stone's  throw  from  the  hall,  had  grown  almost  to  think  them 
selves  a  portion  of  the  family ;  and  surely  no  blood  kindred 
could  have  created  stronger  ties  of  kindness  than  had  the  fa 
miliarity  of  long  acquaintance,  the  confidence  of  old  hereditary 
love.  Lower  yet  in  the  round  of  their  enjoyments,  but  still 
a  constant  source  of  blameless  satisfaction,  were  their  books, 
their  music,  and  their  drawings ;  the  management  of  their 
household,  the  cultivation  of  their  lovely  garden,  the  minister 
ing  to  the  wants  of  their  loved  birds  and  flowers.  Thus,  all 
sequestered  and  secluded  from  the  world,  placed  in  the  midst 
of  calm,  unostentatious  duties,  and  cares  which  to  them  were 
no  source  of  care,  though  they  had  never  danced  at  a  ball,  nor 
blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  beauty  flowing  from  eloquent 
lips,  nor  listened  to  a  lover's  suit,  queens  might  have  envied 
the  felicity,  the  calm,  pure,  peaceful  happiness  of  Annabel  and 
Marian. 

They  were,  indeed,  too  happy !  I  do  not  mean  too  happy  to 
be  virtuous,  too  happy  to  be  mindful  of  and  grateful  to  the  Giver 
of  all  joy — but,  as  the  common  phrase  runs,  too  happy  for 
their  happiness  to  be  enduring.  This  is  a  strange  belief — a 
wondrous  superstition!  —  and  yet  it  has  been  common  to  all 
ages.  The  Greeks,  those  wild  poetical  dreamers,  imagined  that 
their  vain  gods,  made  up  of  moral  attributes,  envied  the  bliss  of 


46 


THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 


men,  fearing  that  wretched  earthlings  should  vie  in  happiness 
with  the  possessors  of  Olympus.  They  sang  in  their  dark 
mystic  choruses  : 

''That  perfect  bliss  of  men  not  childless  dies, 
But  ended,  leaves  a  progeny  behind, 
Of  woes,  that  spring  from  fairest  fortune  blind  — " 

and,  though  their  other  doctrines  of  that  insuperable  destiny — 
that  absolute  necessity,  to  resist  which  is  needless  labor  —  and 
of  ancestral  guilt,  through  countless  generations,  would  seem 
to  militate  against  it,  there  was  no  more  established  faith,  and 
no  more  prevalent  opinion,  than  that  unwonted  fortunes  were 
necessarily  followed  by  most  unusual  wo.  Hence,  perhaps? 
the  stern  self-mortification  of  the  middle  ages — hence,  cer 
tainly,  the  vulgar  terror  prevalent  more  or  less  among  all  classes, 
and  in  every  time  and  country,  that  children  are  too  beautiful, 
too  prematurely  clever,  too  good  to  be  long-lived  —  that  happi 
ness  is  too  great  to  be  lasting — that  mornings  are  too  fine  to 
auger  stormless  days ! 

And  we  —  aye!  we  ourselves  —  we  of  a  better  faith,  and 
purer  dispensation — we  half  believe  all  this,  and  more  than 
half  tremble  at  it,  although,  in  truth,  there  is  no  cause  for  fear 
in  the  belief — since,  if  there  be  aught  of  truth  in  the  myste 
rious  creed,  which  facts  do  in  a  certain  sense  seem  to  bear  out, 
we  can  -but  think,  we  can  not  but  perceive,  that  this  is  but  a 
varied  form  of  care  and  misery,  vouchsafed  by  the  Great  All- 
perfect  toward  his  frail  creatures — that  this  is  but  a  merciful 
provision,  to  hinder  us  from  laying  up  for  ourselves  "  treasures 
upon  earth,  where  moth  and  rust  do  corrupt,  and  where  thieves 
break  through  and  steal" — a  provision  to  restrain  us  from  for 
getting,  in  the  small  temporary  bliss  of  the  present,  the  bound 
less  and  incomparable  beatitude  of  the  future — to  warn  us 
against  bartering,  like  Esau,  our  birthright,  for  a  mess  of  pot 
tage! 


RURAL    SCENERY.  4? 

But  I  am  now  called  to  follow  out  this  train  of  thought,  sug 
gested  by  the  change  in  the  fortunes  of  those  to  whom  I  am 
performing  the  part  of  historian  ;  by  the  change,  I  say,  in  their 
fortunes  —  a  change,  too,  arising  from  the  very  circumstances, 
as  is  frequently  the  case,  which  seemed  to  promise  the  most 
fairly  for  their  improvement  and  their  permanence.  Oh  !  how 
blind  guides  are  we !  even  the  most  far-sighted  of  us  all !  — 
how  weak  and  senseless  judges,  even  the  most  sagacious  — 
how  false  and  erring  prophets,  even  the  wisest  and  the  best ! 

It  was, .as  I  have  said  already,  late  in  the  summer,  where- 
from  Annabel  reckoned  her  twentieth  and  Marian  her  nineteenth 
year — very  late  in  the  last  month  of  summer,  an  hour  or  two 
before  the  sunset  of  as  beautiful  an  evening  as  ever  smiled  upon 
the  face  of  the  green  earth.  The  sky  was  nearly  cloudless, 
though  a  thin  gauze-like  haze  had  floated  up  from  the  horizon, 
and  so  far  veiled  the  orb  of  the  great  sun,  that  the  eye  could 
gaze  undazzled  on  his  glories  ;  and  the  whole  air  was  full  of  a 
rich  golden  light,  which  flooded  the  level  meadows  with  its 
lustre,  except  where  they  were  checkered  by  the  long  cool 
blue  shadows  projected  from  the  massive  clumps  of  noble  for 
est-trees,  which,  singly  or  in  groups,  diversified  the  lonely  vale, 
and  gilded  the  tall,  slender  steeple  of  the  old  village-ctiurch, 
and  glanced  in  living  fire  from  the  broad  oriel  windows  of  the 
hall. 

Such  was  the  evening,  and  so  beautiful  the  prospect,  with 
every  sound  and  sight  in  perfect  harmony — the  sharp  squeak 
of  the  rapid  swifts,  wheeling  their  airy  circles  around  the  dis 
tant  spire,  the  full  and  liquid  melodies  of  thrush  and  blackbird 
from  out  the  thorn-bushes  upon  the  lawn,  the  lowing  of  the 
cows,  returning  from  their  pasture  to  pay  the  evening  tribute, 
the  very  cawing  of  the  homeward  rooks,  blended  fry  distance 
into  a  continuous  and  soothing  murmur,  the  rippling  music  of 
the  stream,  the  low  sound  of  the  west  wind  in  the  foliage  of 


48  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

the  sycamores,  the  far  shout  of  the  children,  happy  at  their  re 
lease  from  school,  the  carol  of  a  solitary  milkmaid,  combining 
to  make  up  a  music  as  sweet  as  can  be  heard  or  dreamed  of  by 
the  sleeping  poet.  That  lovely  picture  was  surveyed,  and  that 
delicious  melody  was  listened  to,  by  eyes  and  ears  well  fitted 
to  appreciate  their  loveliness  :  for,  at  an  open  casement  of  a  great 
parlor  in  the  hall,  with  furniture  all  covered  with  those  elegant 
appliances  of  female  industry — well-executed  drawings,  and 
books,  and  instruments  of  music,  and  work-baskets,  and  frames 
for  embroidery — which  show  so  pleasantly  that  the  apartment 
is  one  not  of  show,  but  of  calm  home-enjoyment — at  an  open 
casement  sat  Annabel,  alone — for  the  presence  of  the  frail  par 
alytic  being,  who  dozed  in  her  arm-chair,  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  can  not  be  held  to  constitute  society.  Marian,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  was  absent  from  her  home,  on  a  visit, 
which  had  already  endured  nearly  six  weeks,  to  the  only  near 
relative  of  the  family  who  was  yet  living — a  younger  sister  of 
her  mother,  who  had  married  many  years  ago  a  clergyman, 
whose  piety  and  talents  had  raised  him  to  a  stall  in  the  cathe 
dral  church  of  York,  where  he  resided  with  his  wife  —  a  child 
less  couple. 

This  worthy  pair  had  passed  a  portion  of  the  summer  at  the 
hall,  and  when  returning  to  the  metropolis  of  the  county,  had 
prevailed  on  their  younger  niece, .not  altogether  without  diffi 
culty,  to  go  with  them  for  a  few  weeks,  and  see  a  little  society 
on  a  scale  something  more  extended  than  that  which  her  native 
vales  could  offer.  It  was  the  first  time  in  their  lives  that  the 
sisters  had  been  parted  for  more  than  a  few  days,  and  now  the 
hours  were  beginning  to  appear  very  long  to  Annabel ;  as 
weeks  were  running  into  months,  and  the  gorgeous  suns  of 
summer  were  fast  preparing  to  give  place  to  the  cold  dews  and 
frosty  winds  of  autumn.  The  evening  meal  was  over,  and  a 
solitary  thing  was  that  meal  now,  which  used  to  be  the  most 


AN    ADVANCING    CLOUD.  49 

delightful  of  the  day ;  and  hastily  did  the  lonely  sister  hurry 
it  over,  thinking  all  the  while  what  might  be  Marian's  occupa 
tion  at  the  moment,  and  whether  she  too  was  engaged  in 
thoughts  concerning  her  far  friends,  and  the  fair  home  of  her 
childhood. 

It  was,  then,  in  a  mood  half-melancholy  and  half-listless,  that 
Annabel  was  gazing  from  her  window,  down  the  broad  valley 
to  the  eastward,  marvelling  at  the  -beauty  of  the  scenery,  though 
she  had  noted  every  changing  hue  that  flitted  over  the  far  pur 
ple  hills  a  thousand  times  before.  She  listened  to  every  sweet 
familiar  sound ;  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  pondered,  as  if  she 
were  quite  unconscious  of  all  that  met  her  senses,  about  things 
which  she  fancied  might  be  happening  at  York,  when  on  a 
sudden,  her  attention  was  aro'used  by  a  dense  cloud  of  dust, 
rising  beyond  the  river,  upon  the  line  of  the  high  road,  and 
sweeping  up  the  valley,  with  a  progress  so  unusually  rapid  as 
to  indicate  that  the  objects,  which  it  veiled  from  view,  must  be 
in  more  than  commonly  quick  motion.  For  a  few  moments 
she  watched  this  little  marvel  narrowly,  but  without  any  appre 
hension  or  even  any  solicitude  ;  until,  as  it  drew  nearer,  she 
could  at  times  see  bright  flashes,  as  if  of  polished  metal,  gleam 
ing  out  through  the  murky  wreaths,  and  feathers  waving  in 
the  air. 

The  year  was  that,  in  which  the  hapless  Charles,  all  hopes 
of  reconciliation  with  his  parliament  being  decidedly  frustrated, 
displayed  the  banner  of  civil  war,  and  drew  the  sword  against 
his  subjects.  The  rumors  of  the  coming  strife  had  circulated, 
like  the  dread  subterraneous  rumblings  which  harbinger  the 
earthquake,  through  all  the  country  far  and  near  ;  sad  omens  of 
approaching  evil !  and  more  distinctly  were  they  bruited  through 
Yorkshire,  in  consequence  of  the  attempt  which  had  been  made 
by  the  royal  party  to  secure  Hull,  with  all  its  magazines  and 
shipping  —  frustrated  by  the  energy  and  spirit  of  the  Hothams 

5 


50  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

—  so  that,  as  soon  as  she  perceived  that  the  dust  was  beyond 
all  doubt  stirred  up  by  a  small  party  of  well-appointed  horse, 
Annabel  entertained  no  doubts  as  to  the  meaning,  but  many  se 
rious  apprehensions  as  to  the  cause  of  the  present  visitation. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  road,  by  which  the  cavaliers  were  proceeding,  though 
well-made  and  passable  at  all  times,  was  no  considerable  thor 
oughfare  ;  no  large  or  important  towns  lay  on  its  route  ;  nay, 
no  large  villages  were  situated  on  its  margin.  It  was  a  devious 
winding  way,  leading  to  many  a  homely  farmhouse,  many  a  se 
questered  hamlet,  and  affording  to  the  good  rustics  a  means  of 
carrying  their  wheat  and  eggs  and  butter,  or  driving  their  fat 
cattle  and  black-face  moorland  sheep  to  market ;  but  it  was  not 
the  direct  line  between  any  two  points,  or  places,  worthy  even 
of  a  passing  notice.  It  is  true,  that  some  twelve  or  fifteen 
miles  down  the  valley  there  was  a  house  or  two  tenanted  by 
gentry  —  one  that  might  by  a  liberal  courtesy  have  been  desig 
nated  a  castle  ;  but  above  Ingleborough  hall,  to  northwestward, 
there  was  no  manor-house  or  dwelling  of  the  aristocracy  at  all, 
until  the  road  left  the  ghylls — as  those  wild  dens  are  designa 
ted — and  joined  the  line  of  the  great  northern  turnpike. 

It  was  extremely  singular,  then,  to  say  the  least,  that  a  gay 
troop  of  riders  should  appear  suddenly  in  that  wild  spot,  so  far 
from  anything  that  would  be  likely  to  attract  them  ;  and  Anna 
bel  sat  some  time  longer  by  the  window,  wondering,  and  at  the 
same  time  fearing,  although  in  truth  she  scarce  knew  what. 
Ere  long  at  a  mile's  distance  she  saw  them  halt,  and  after  a  few 
moments'  conversation  with  a  farming-man  on  the  wayside,  as 
if  to  inquire  their  route,  turn  suddenly  down  a  narrow  by-road 


THE    VICAR    AND    HIS    WIFE.  51 

leading  to  the  high  narrow  bridge  of  many  arches,  which 
crossed  the  noble  river  and  gave  the  only  access  to  the  sefclu- 
ded  site  of  Ingleborough.  When  she  saw  this,  however,  her 
perturbation  became  very  great ;  for  wTell  she  knew  that  there 
lay  nothing  in  that  direction  except  one  little  market-town,  far 
distant,  and  a  few  scattered  farmhouses  on  the  verge  of  the 
moors,  so  that  there  could  be  but  little  doubt  that  Ingleborough 
was  indeed  their  destination. 

The  very  moment  that  she  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  Anna 
bel  called  a  serving-man,  and  bade  him  run  quick  to  the  vicar 
age,  and  pray  good  Doctor  Somers  to  come  up  to  her  instantly, 
as  she  was  in  great  strait,  and  fain  would  speak  with  him  ;  and 
at  the  same  time,  with  an  energy  of  character  that  hardly  could 
have  been  expected  from  one  so  young  and  delicate,  ordered 
the  men  of  the  household — including  in  those  days  the  fowler 
and  falconer,  and  half  a  dozen  grooms  and  many  a  supernume 
rary  more,  whom  we  in  these  degenerate  times  have  long  dis 
carded  as  incumbrances,  to  have  their  arms  in  readiness — for 
every  manor-house  then  had  its  regular  armory — and  to  pre 
pare  the  great  bell  of  the  hall,  to  summon  all  the  tenants  on 
the  instant,  in  case  such  proceedings  should  be  needful. 

In  a  few  moments  the  good  gray-haired  vicar  came,  almost 
breathless  from  the  haste  with  which  he  had  crossed  the  little 
space  between  the  vicarage  and  the  manor,  and  a  little  while 
afterward  his  wife  followed  him,  anxious  to  learn  as  soon  as 
possible  what  could  have  so  disturbed  the  quiet  tenor  of  a  mind 
so  regulated  by  high  principles,  and  garrisoned  by  holy  thoughts, 
as  Annabel's.  Their  humble  dwelling,  though  scarce  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  hall,  was  screened  by  a  projecting  knoll  feath 
ered  with  dense  and  shadowy  coppice,  hiding'  from  it  entirely 
the  road  by  which  the  horsemen  were  advancing  ;  so  that  the 
worthy  couple  had  not  perceived,  or  suspected,  anything  to  jus 
tify  the  fears  of  Annabel,  until  they  were  both  standing  in  her 


52  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

presence.  Then,  while  the  worthy  doctor  was  proffering  his 
assistance,  and  his  good  wife  inquiring  eagerly  what  was  amiss, 
they  caught  sight  of  that  gay  company  of  cavaliers,  with  feath 
ers  waving  and  scarfs  fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  gold  embroi 
deries  glancing  to  the  sun  ;  as,  having  left  the  dusty  road,  they 
wheeled  through  the  green  meadows,  and  flashed  suddenly  upon 
their  eyes  —  a  spectacle  as  unexpected  as  it  was  gorgeous  and 
exciting ! 

"  Who  can  they  be  ?  What  possibly  can  bring  them  hither  ?" 
exclaimed  Annabel,  pointing  with  evident  trepidation  toward 
the  rapidly-approaching  horsemen.  "I  fear — oh!  I  greatly 
fear  some  heavy  ill  is  coming — but  I  have  ordered  all  the  men 
to  take  their  arms,  and  the  great  bell  will  bring  us  twenty  ten 
ants  in  half  as  many  minutes  !  WThat  can  it  be,  good  doctor  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  know  not,  Annabel,"  replied  the  good  man,  smi 
ling  cheerfully  as  he  spoke  ;  "  in  truth  I  know  not,  nor  can  at 
all  conjecture  ;  but  be  quite  sure  of  this,  dear  girl,  that  they  will 
do,  to  us  at  least,  no  evil ! — they  are  King  Charles's  men,  with 
out  doubt,  churchmen  and  cavaliers,  all  of  them  !  —  any  one  can 
see  that !  and,  though  I  know  not  that  we  have  much  to  fear 
from  either  party,  from  them  at  least  we  have  no  earthly  cause 
for  apprehension.  I  will  go  forth,  however,  to  meet  them,  and 
to  learn  their  errand  —  meantime,  fear  nothing." 

"  Oh !  you  mistake  me,"  she  answered  at  once  ;  "  oh  !  you 
mistake  me  very  much  ;  for  I  did  not  even  for  a  moment  fear 
personally  anything ;  it  was  for  my  poor  mother  I  was  first 
alarmed  ;  and  all  our  good  neighbors  ;  and  indeed  all  the  coun 
try  around,  that  shows  so  beautifully  and  happy  this  fair  even 
ing  !  —  oh  !  but  this  civil  war  is  a  dread  thing  ;  and  dread  I  fear 
will  be  the  reckoning  of  those  who  make  it." 

"  Who  make  it  without  cause,  my  daughter  !  A  dreadful 
thing  it  is  at  all  times,  but  it  may  be  a  necessary,  ay !  and  a 
holy  thing- — when  freedom  or  religion  is  at  stake  !  but  we  will 


A    GALLANT    CAVALIER.  53 

talk  of  this  at  another  time  ;  for  see,  they  have  already  reached 
the  furthest  gate,  and  I  must  speak  with  them  before  they  enter 
here,  let  them  be  who  they  may." 

And  with  the  words,  pressing  her  hand  with  fatherly  affec 
tion,  "  Farewell,"  he  said,  "  be  of  good  cheer.  I  purpose  to 
return  forthwith."  And  then  he  left  the  room,  and  hurrying 
down  the  steps  of  the  porch,  walked  far  more  rapidly  than 
seemed  to  suit  his  advanced  years  and  sedentary  habits,  across 
the  park  to  meet  the  gallant  company. 

A  gallant  company,  indeed,  it  was,  and  such  as  was  but 
rarely  seen  in  that  wild  region  —  being  the  train  of  a  young 
gentleman,  of  some  eight  or  nine  and  twenty  years,  splendidly 
mounted,  and  dressed  in  the  magnificent  fashion  of  those  days, 
in  a  half-military  costume  ;  for  his  buff  coat  was  lined  through 
out  with  rich  white  satin,  and  fringed  and  looped  with  silver, 
a  falling  collar  of  rich  Flanders  lace  flowing  down  over  his 
steel  gorget,  and  a  broad  scarf  of  blue  silk  supporting  his  long 
silver-hilted  rapier.  By  his  side  rode  another  person,  not  cer 
tainly  a  menial  servant,  and  yet  clearly  not  a  gentleman  of 
birth  and  lineage  ;  and  after  these  a  dozen  or  more  armed  at 
tendants  followed,  all  wearing  the  blue  scarf  and  black  feathers 
of  the  royalists,  all  nobly  mounted,  and  accoutred,  like  regular 
troopers,  with  sword  and  dagger,  pistols  and  musquetoons,  al 
though  they  wore  no  breastplates,  nor  any  sort  of  defensive 
armor. 

A  brace  of  jet-black  grayhounds,  without  a  speck  of  white 
upon  their  sleek  and  glistening  hides,  ran  bounding  merrily  be 
side  their  master's  stirrup,  and  a  magnificent  goshawk  sat  hood 
ed  on  his  wrist,  with  silver  bells  and  richly-decorated  jesses. 
So  much  had  the  ladies  observed,  even  before  the  old  man 
reached  the  party ;  but  when  he  did  so,  and  paused  for  a  mo 
ment  to  address  the  leader,  that  gentleman  immediately  dis 
mounted  from  his  horse  ;  and  after  shaking  hands,  cordially, 


54  THE   RIVAL    SISTERS. 

the  two  advanced  together,  apparently  engaged  in  eager  con 
versation,  toward  the  entrance  of  the  hall. 

This  went  far,  on  the  instant,  to  restore  confidence  to  Anna 
bel  ;  but  when  they  came  so  near  that  their  faces  could  be  seen 
distinctly  from  the  windows,  and  she  could  mark  a  well-pleased 
smile  upon  the  venerable  features  of  her  friend,  she  was  com 
pletely  reassured.  A  single  glance,  moreover,  at  the  face  of 
the  stranger,  showed  her  that  the  most  timid  maiden  need 
hardly  feel  a  moment's  apprehension,  even  if  he  were  her  coun 
try's  or  her  faction's  foe  ;  for  it  was  not  merely  handsome,  stri 
king,  and  distinguished,  but  such  as  indicates,  or  is  supposed  to 
indicate,  the  presence  of  a  kindly  disposition  and  good  heart. 
Annabel  had  not  much  time,  indeed,  for  making  observations  at 
that  time  ;  for  it  was  scarce  a  minute  before  they  had  ascended 
the  short  flight  of  steps,  which  led  to  the  stone  porch,  and  en 
tered  the  door  of  the  vestibule.  A  moment  longer,  and  they 
came  into  the  parlor,  the  worthy  vicar  leading  the  young  man 
by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  a  friend  of  ten  years'  standing. 

"  Annabel,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  joyous  voice,  as  he  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  room,  "  this  is  the  young  Lord  de  Yaux, 
son  of  your  honored  father's  warmest  and  oldest  friends,  and  in 
years  long  gone  by,  but  unforgotten,  my  kindest  patron.  He 
has  come  hither,  bearing  letters  from  his  father — knowing  not 
until  now  that  you,  my  child,  were  so  long  since  bereaved  — 
letters  of  commendation,  praying  the  hospitality  of  Inglebo- 
rough,  and  the  best  Influence  of  the  name  of  Hawkwood,  to 
levy  men  to  serve  King  Charles  in  the  approaching  war.  I 
have  already  told  him — " 

"  How  glad,  how  welcome,  doubtless,  would  have  been  his 
coming" — answered  Annabel,  advancing  easily  to  meet  the 
youthful  nobleman,  although  a  deep  blush  covered  all  her  pale 
features,  as  she  performed  her  unaccustomed  duty  —  "had  my 
dear  father  been  alive,  or  my  poor  mother"  —  casting  a  rapid 


RECRUITS    FOR    THE    KINO.  55 

glance  toward  the  invalid — "  been  in  health  to  greet  him.  As 
it  is" — she  continued,  "the  Lord  de  Vaux,  I  doubt  not  in  the 
least,  will  pardon  any  imperfections  in  our  hospitality,  and  be 
lieve,  if  in  aught  we  err,  it  will  be  error  not  of  friendliness,  or 
of  feeling,  but  of  experience  only ;  seeing  I  am  but  a  young 
mistress  of  a  household.  You,  my  kind  friend,  and  Mistress 
Somers,  will  doubtless  tarry  with  us,  while  my  Lord  de  Vaux 
gives  us  the  favor  of  his  presence." 

"  Loath  should  I  be,  indeed,  dear  lady,  thus  to  intrude  upon 
your  sorrows,  could  I  at  all  avoid  it,"  replied  the  cavalier  — 
"  and  charming,  as  it  must  needs  be,  to  enjoy  the  hospitalities 
tendered  by  such  a  one  as  you,  I  do  assure  you,  were  I  my 
self  concerned  alone,  I  would  remount  my  horse  at  once,  and 
ride  away,  rather  than  force  myself  upon  your  courtesy.  But, 
when  I  tell  you  that  my  father's  strong  opinion  holds  it  a  mat 
ter  of  importance — importance  almost  vital  —  to  the  king,  and 
to  the  cause  of  church  and  state  in  England,  that  I  should  levy 
some  force  here  of  cavaliers — where  there  be  so  few  heads  of 
noble  houses  living — to  act  in  union  with  Sir  Philip  Musgrave, 
in  the  north,  and  with  Sir  Marmaduke  Langdale,  I  both  trust 
and  believe  that  you  will  overlook  the  trouble  and  intrusion,  in 
fair  consideration  of  the  motives  which  impel  me." 

"  Pray,"  said  she,  smiling  gayly,  "  pray,  my  Lord  de  Vaux, 
let  us  now  leave  apology  and  compliment  —  most  unaffectedly 
and  truly,  I  am  glad  to  receive  you  both  as  the  son  of  my  fa 
ther's  valued  friend,  and  as  a  faithful  servant  of  our  most  gracious 
king  —  we  will  do  our  best  to  entertain  you ;  and  Doctor  Som 
ers  will  aid  you,  with  his  counsel  and  experience,  in  furthering 
your  military  levies.  How  left  you  the  good  earl,  your  father? 
I  have  heard  mine  speak  of  him  many  times,  and  ever  in  the 
highest  terms  of  praise,  when  I  was  but  a  little  girl  — and  my 
poor  mother  much  more  recently ;  before  this  sad  calamity 
affected  her  so  fearfully." 


56  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

Her  answer,  as  it  was  intended,  had  the  effect  of  putting  an 
end  to  all  formality,  and  setting  the  young  nobleman  completely 
at  ease.  The  conversation  took  a  general  tone,  and  was  main 
tained  on  all  sides  with  sufficient  spirit,  until — when  Annabel 
retired  for  a  little  space,  to  conduct  her  mother  to  her  chamber 
—  De  Vaux  found  himself  wondering  how  a  mere  country-girl, 
who  had  lived  a  life  so  secluded  and  domestic,  should  have  ac 
quired  graces,  of  both  mind  and  manner,  such  as  he  never  had 
discovered  in  court  ladies  ;  while  she  was  struck,  even  in  a 
greater  degree,  by  the  frank,  unaffected  bearing,  the  gay  wit,  and 
sparkling  anecdote,  blended  with  many  a  touch  of  deeper  feel 
ing,  which  characterized  the  youthful  nobleman's  conversation. 

After  a  little  while  she  reappeared,  and,  with  her,  was  an 
nounced  the  evening  meal,  the  pleasant,  old-fashioned  supper  ; 
and,  as  he  sat  beside  her,  while  she  presided,  full  of  calm,  mod 
est  self-possession,  at  the  head  of  her  hospitable  board,  with  no 
one  to  encourage  her,  or  lend  her  countenance,  except  the  good 
old  vicar  and  his  homely  helpmate,  he  could  not  but  draw  fresh 
comparisons,  all  in  her  favor,  too,  between  the  quiet,  graceful 
confidence  of  the  ingenuous  girl  before  him,  and  the  minaude- 
ries  and  the  meretricious  airs  of  the  court  dames,  who  had  been 
hitherto  the  objects  of  his  passing  admiration. 

Cheerfully,  then,  and  pleasantly,  the  evening  passed  away ; 
and  when  upon  her  little  couch,  hard  by  the  invalid's  sick  bed, 
Annabel  thought  over  the  events  of  the  past  day,  she  felt  con 
cerning  young  De  Vaux,  rather  as  if  he  had  been  an  old  famil 
iar  friend,  with  whom  she  had  renewed  an  intercourse  long  in 
terrupted,  than  as  of  a  mere  acquaintance,  whom  that  day  had 
first  introduced,  and  whom  the  next  might  possibly  remove  for 
ever.  Something  there  Avas,  when  they  met  next,  at  breakfast, 
on  the  following  morning,  of  blushing  bashfulness  in  Annabel, 
which  he  had  not  observed,  nor  she  before  experienced  ;  but  it 
passed  rapidly  away,  and  left  her  self-possessed  and  tranquil. 


NOT    QUITE    IN    LOVE.  57 

And  surely  in  the  sparkling  eye,  the  eager  haste,  with  which 
he  broke  away  from  his  conversation  with  Doctor  Somers,  as 
she  entered  —  in  his  hand  half-extended,  and  then  half-awk- 
wardly,  half-timidly  withdrawn,  there  was  much  indication  of 
excited  feeling,  widely  at  variance  with  the  polite  and  even 
formal  mannerism  inculcated  and  practised  in  the  court  of  the 
unhappy  Charles.  It  needs  not,  however,  to  dwell  on  passing 
conversations,  to  narrate  every  trifling  incident.  The  morning 
meal  once  finished,  De  Vaux  mounted  his  hors'e,  and  rode  forth 
in  accordance  with  the  directions  of  the  loyal  clergyman,  to 
visit  such  among  the  neighboring  farmers,  as  were  most  likely 
to  be  able  to  assist  him  in  levying  a  horse  regiment. 

A  few  hours  passed  ;  and  he  returned  full  of  high  spirits  and 
hot  confidence  —  he  had  met  everywhere  assurances  of  good 
will  to  the  royal  cause  ;  had  succeeded  in  enlisting  some  ten 
or  more  stout  and  hardy  youths,  and  had  no  doubt  of  finally  ac 
complishing  the  object  which  he  had  in  view,  to  the  full  height 
of  his  aspirations. 

After  dinner,  which,  in  those  primitive  days,  was  served  at 
noon,  he  was  engaged  for  a  time  in  making  up  despatches  for 
his  father,  which  having  been  sent  off  by  one  of  his  own  trusty 
servants  to  the  castle  in  Northumberland,  he  went  out,  and 
joined  his  lovely  hostess  in  the  sheltered  garden,  which  I  have 
described  above  ;  and  there  they  lingered  until  the  sun  was 
sinking  in  the  west,  behind  the  huge  and  purple-headed  hills 
that  screened  the  horizon  in  that  direction.  The  evening  cir 
cle  and  the  social  meal  succeeded  ;  and  when  they  parted  for 
the  night,  if  Annabel  and  young  De  Vaux  could  not  be  said  to 
be  enamored,  as  indeed  they  could  scarcely  be  as  yet,  they  had 
at  least  made  so  much  progress  to  that  end,  that  each  esteemed 
the  other  the  most  agreeable  and  charming  person,  it  had  been 
hitherto  their  fortune  to  encounter.  And  —  although  this  was 
decidedly  the  furthest  point  to  which  the  thoughts  of  Annabel 


58  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

extended — when  he  had  lain  down  on  his  bed,  with  the  sweet 
rays  of  the  harvest  moon  flooding  his  room  with  quiet  lustre, 
and  the  voice  of  the  murmuring  rivulet,  and  the  low  flutter  of 
the  west  wind  in  the  giant  sycamores, 'blending  themselves  into 
a  soft  and  soothing  melody — the  young  lord  felt  himself  con 
sidering  how  gracefully  that  fair  pale  girl  would  fill  the  place 
which  had  been  long  left  vacant  by  his  mother  in  the  grand 
hall  of  Gilsland  castle. 


CHAPTER    V. 

ANOTHER  and  another  day  succeeded  —  a  week  slipped 
away  —  a  second  and  a  third  followed  it ;  and  still  the  ranks  of 
the  royal  regiment,  though  they  filled  rapidly,  had  many  vacan 
cies,  and  arms  had  yet  to  be  provided,  and  standards  and  mu 
sicians  ;  messengers  went  and  came  continually  between  the 
castle  and  the  manor,  and  all  was  haste  and  confusion  in  the 
lone  glens  of  Wharfdale.  Meantime  a  change  was  wrought  in 
Annabel's  demeanor,  and  all  who  saw  remarked  it — there  was 
a  brighter  glow  than  ever  had  been  seen  before,  in  her  transpa 
rent  cheeks  ;  her  eyes  sparkled  almost  as  brilliantly  as  Ma 
rian's  ;  her  lips  were  frequently  arrayed  in  bright  and  beaming 
smiles  ;  her  step  was  light  and  springy  as  a  young  fawn's  on 
the  mountain.  Annabel  was  in  love,  and  had  discovered  that 
she  was  so  —  Annabel  was  beloved  and  knew  it — the  young 
lord's  declaration  and  the  old  earl's  consent  had  come  together ; 
and  the  sweet  maiden's  heart  was  given,  and  her  hand  prom 
ised,  almost  before  the  asking.  Joy  !  joy  !  was  there  not  joy  in 
Ingleborough  ? 

The  good  old  vicar's  tranquil  air  of  satisfaction  ;  the  loud  and 
eloquent  mirth  of  his  kind-hearted  housewife — the  merry,  gay 


"MAN  PROPOSES."  59 

congratulations  of  wild  Marian,  who  wrote  from  York,  half 
crazy  with  excitement  and  delight — the  evident  and  lovely 
happiness  of  the  young  promised  bride — what  pen  of  man  may 
even  aspire  to  write  them.  All  was  decided  —  all  arranged  — 
the  marriage  was,  so  far,  at  least,  to  be  held  private,  that  no  fes 
tivities  or  public  merriment  should  bruit  it  to  the  world,  until  the 
civil  strife  should  be  decided,  and  the  king's  power  established  ; 
which  all  men  fancied,  at  that  day,  it  would  be  by  a  single  bat 
tle —  and  which,  had  Rupert  wheeled  upon  the  flank  of  Essex 
at  Edge-Hill,  instead  of  chasing  the  discomfited  and  flying  horse 
of  the  Roundheads,  miles  from  the  field  of  battle,  would  proba 
bly  have  been  the  case. 

The  old  earl  had  sent  the  wedding  gifts  to  his  son's  chosen 
bride,  had  promised  to  be  present  at  the  nuptials,  the  day  of 
which  was  fixed  already ;  but  it  had  been  decided  that  when 
De  Vaux  should  be  forced  to  join  the  royal  armies  his  young 
wife  should  continue  to  reside  at  Ingleborough,  with  her  be 
reaved  mother  and  fond  sister,  until  the  wished-for  peace  should 
unite  England  once  again  in  bonds  of  general  amnity  ;  and  the 
bridegroom  find  honorable  leisure  to  lead  his  wife  in  state  to 
his  paternal  mansions. 

Days  sped  away — how  fast  they  seemed  to  fly  to  those  hap 
py  young  lovers  !  How  was  the  very  hour  of  their  first  inter 
view  noted,  and  marked  with  white  in  the  deep  tablets  of  their 
minds  —  how  did  they  shyly,  yet  fondly  recount  each  to  the 
other  the  first  impressions  of  their  growing  fondness — how  did 
they  bless  the  cause  that  brought  them  thus  together.  Proh 
C(Bca  mens  mortalium  !  —  oh!  the  short-sighted  scope  of  mortal 
vision  !  alas  !  for  one  —  for  both  ! 

The  wedding  day  was  fixed,  and  now  was  fast  approaching; 
and  hourly  was  Marian,  with  their  good  uncle  and  his  dame, 
expected  at  the  hall,  and  wished  for,  and  discoursed  of  by  the 
lovers  —  "and  oh!" — would  Annabel  say,  half-sportively,  and 


60  THE  RIVAL  SISTERS. 

half  in  earnest — "  well  was  it  for  my  happiness,  De  Vaux,  that 
she  was  absent  when  you  first  came  hither,  for  had  you  seen 
her  first,  her  far  superior  beauty,  her  bright  wild  radiant  face, 
her  rare  arch  naivete,  her  flashing  wit,  and  beautiful  enthusiasm 
would  —  must  have  captivated  you  all  at  once  —  and  what  had 
then  become  of  your  poor  Annabel  ?" 

And  then  would  the  young  lord  vow — that  had  he  met  her 
first  in  the  most  glorious  courts  of  Europe,  with  all  the  gor 
geous  beauties  of  the  world  to  rival  her,  she  would  alone  have 
been  the  choice  of  his  soul — his  soul,  first  touched  by  her,  of 
woman !  And  then  he  would  ask  in  lowered  tones,  and  with  a 
sly  simplicity  of  manner,  whether,  if  he  had  loved  another,  she 
could  have  still  loved  him  ;  to  which,  with  all  the  frank  and 
fearless  purity  that  was  so  beautiful  a  trait  in  Annabel  — "  Oh 
yes — "  she  would  reply,  and  gaze  with  calm  reliance,  as  she 
did  so,  into  her  lover's  eyes  —  "  oh  yes,  dear  Ernest  —  and  then 
how  miserably  wretched  must  I  have  been  through  my  whole 
life  hereafter.  Oh !  yes,  I  loved  you — though  then  I  knew  it 
not,  nor  indeed  thought  at  all  about  it,  until  you  spoke  to  me  — 
I  loved  you  dearly !  —  and  I  believe  it  would  almost  have 
killed  me  to  look  upon  you  afterward  as  the  wife  of  another." 

The  wedding  day  was  but  a  fortnight  distant ;  and  strange  to 
say  it  was  the  very  day,  two  months  gone,  which  had  seen 
their  meeting.  Wains  had  arrived  from  Gilsland,  loaded  with 
arms  and  uniforms,  standards  and  ammunitions  ;  two  brothers 
of  young  De  Vaux,  young  gallant  cavaliers,  had  come,  partly  to 
officer  the  men,  partly  to  do  fit  honor  to  their  brother's  nuptials. 

The  day,  although  the  season  had  now  advanced  far  into 
brown  October  was  sunny,  mild,  and  beautiful ;  the  regiment 
had,  for  the  first  time,  mustered  in  arms  in  Ingleborough  park, 
and  a  gay  show  they  made,  with  their  glittering  casques  and 
corslets,  fresh  from  the  armorer's  anvil,  and  their  fluttering 
scarfs,  and  dancing  plumes,  and  bright  emblazoned  banners. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    MEETING.  61 

The  sun  was  in  the  act  of  setting — De  Vaux  and  Annabel 
were  watching  his  decline  from  the  same  window  in  the  hall 
whence  she  had  first  discovered  his  unexpected  coming  ;  when, 
as  on  that  all  eventful  evening,  a  little  dust  was  seen  arising  on 
the  high  road  beyond  the  river ;  and,  in  a  moment,  a  small 
mounted  party  became  visible,  amidst  which  might  be  readily 
descried  the  fluttering  of  female  garments  ! 

"It  is  my  sister"  —  exclaimed  Annabel,  jumping  up  on  the 
instant,  and  clasping  her  hands  eagerly — "  it  is  my  dear,  dear 
sister  —  come,  Ernest,  come,  let  us  go  and  meet  dear  Marian." 
No  time  was  lost,  but  arm-in-arm  the  lovers  sallied  forth,  and 
met  the  little  train  just  on  this  side  of  the  park-gate. 

Marian  sprang  from  her  horse,  light  as  a  spirit  of  the  air,  and 
rushed  into  her  sister's  arms,  and  clung  there  with  a  long  and 
lingering  embrace,  and  as  she  raised  her  head,  a  bright  tear 
glittered  on  either  silky  eyelash.  De  Yaux  advanced  to  greet 
her,  but  as  he  did  so,  earnestly  perusing  the  lineaments  of  his 
fair  future  sister,  he  was  most  obviously  embarrassed,  his  man 
ner  was  confused,  and  even  agitated,  his  words  faltered.  And 
she,  whose  face  had  been  a  second  before,  beaming  with  the 
bright  crimson  of  excitement — whose  eye  had  looked  round 
eagerly  and  gladly  to  mark  the  chosen  of  her  sister  —  she  turned 
as  pale  as  ashes — brow,  cheeks,  and  lips — pale,  almost  livid! 
—  and  her  eye  fell  abashed,  and  did  not  rise  again  till  he  had 
finished  speaking.  None  noticed  it  but  Annabel ;  for  all  the 
party  were  engaged  in  gay  congratulations,  and — they  recov 
ering  themselves  immediately  —  nothing  more  passed,  that 
could  create  surmise — but  she  did  notice  it,  and  her  heart  sank 
for  a  moment,  and  all  that  evening  she  was  unusually  grave 
and  silent ;  and,  had  not  her  usual  demeanor  been  so  exceed 
ingly  calm  and  subdued,  her  strange  dejection  must  have  been 
seen,  and  wondered  at,  by  her  assembled  kinsfolk. 

G 


62  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  morning  after  Marian's  arrival  at  the  manor,  was  one  of 
those  bright  lovely  dawns,  sure  harbingers  of  sweet  and  sunny 
days,  that  often  interrupt  the  melancholy  progress  of  an  English 
autumn ;  fairer  and  softer,  as  the  season  waxed  older,  and  more 
enchanting  from  the  contrast,  which  they  can  not  fail  to  suggest, 
between  their  balmy  mildness,  and  the  chilly  winds  and  gloomy 
fogs  of  the  approaching  winter.  The  sky  was  altogether  cloud 
less,  yet  it  had  nothing  of  the  deep  azure  hue  which  it  presents 
in  summer,  resembling  in  its  tints  and  its  transparency  a  can 
opy,  if  such  a  thing  could  be,  of  living  aqua-marine,  and  kindled 
by  a  flood  of  pure,  pale  yellow  lustre. 

None  of  the  trees  were  wholly  leafless,  though  none,  per 
haps,  unless  it  were  a  few  old  oaks,  but  had  lost  something  of 
their  summer  foliage  ;  and  their  changed  colors  varying  from 
the  deepest  green,  through  all  the  shades  of  yellow,  down  to 
the  darkest  amber,  although  prophetic  of  their  coming  doom, 
and  therefore  saddening,  with  a  sort  of  chastened  spiritual  sor 
row,  the  heart  of  the  observer,  added  a  solemn  beauty  to  the 
scenery,  that  well  accorded  with  its  grand  and  romantic  char 
acter. 

The  vast  round-headed  hills,  seen  through  the  filmy  haze 
which  floated  over  them,  filling  up  their  dells  and  hollows, 
showed  every  intermediate  hue  from  the  red  russet  of  their 
heathery  foreground,  to  the  rich  purple  of  their  furthest  peaks. 
The  grass,  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  lose  its  verdant  fresh 
ness,  was  thickly  meshed  with  gossamer,  all  sprinkled  by  the 
pure  and  plenteous  dews,  and  flashing  like  a  net  of  diamonds 
upon  a  ground  of  emerald  velvet,  to  the  early  sunbeams. 


THE    CLOSING    SUMMER.  63 

It  was  summer — late  indeed  in  that  lovely  season,  but  still 
full  summer,  with  all  her  garniture  of  green,  her  pomp  of  full 
blown  flowers — the  glorious  mature  womanhood  of  the  year! 
when  Marian  left  her  home.  Not  a  trace  of  decay  or  change 
was  visible  on  its  bright  brow,  not  a  leaf  of  its  embroideries 
was  altered,  not  a  bud  in  its  garland  was  blighted.  She  had 
returned ;  and  everything,  though  beautiful  and  glowing,  bore 
the  plain  stamp  of  approaching  dissolution.  The  west  wind 
blew  as  softly  as  in  June  through  the  tall  sycamores,  but  after 
every  breath,  while  all  was  lulled  and  peaceful,  the  broad  sere 
leaves  came  whirling  down  from  the  shaken  branches,  on  which 
their  hold  was  now  so  slight,  that  but  the  whisper  of  a  sigh  was 
needed  to  detach  them  ;  the  skies  —  the  waters — were  as  pure 
as  ever,  as  beautifully  clear  and  lucid,  but  in  their  brightness 
there  was  a  chill  and  glassy  glitter,  as  different  from  their  warm 
sheen  under  a  July  sun,  as  is  the  keen  unnatural  radiance  of  a 
blue  eye  in  the  consumptive  girl,  from  its  rich  lustrous  light  in 
a  mature  and  healthy  woman. 

Was  it  the  contemplation  of  this  change  that  brought  so  sad 
a  cloud  over  the  brow  of  lovely  Marian  Hawkwood  ;  so  dull  a 
gloom  into  her  speaking  eye  ;  so  dread  a  paleness  upon  the 
ripe  damask  of  her  cheek  ?  Sad  indeed  always  is  such  contem 
plation — sorrowful  and  grave  thoughts  must  it  awake  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  think  the  least,  to  revisit  a  fair  well-known 
scene  which  they  have  quitted  in  the  festal  flush  of  summer, 
when  all  the  loveliness  they  dwelt  on  so  fondly  is  flown  or  fly 
ing.  It  brings  a  chill  upon  the  spirit,  like  that  which  touches 
the  last  guest  — 

"  Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  ars  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  save  he  departed." 


64  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

It  wakes  a  passing  anguish,  like  that  which  thrills  to  the 
heart's  core  of  him,  who,  after  years  of  wandering  in  a  foreign 
clime,  returns  to  find  the  father,  whom  he  left  still  in  the  prime 
of  vigorous  and  active  manhood,  bowed,  bent,  gray-haired,  and 
paralytic  ;  the  mother,  whom  he  saw  at  their  last  parting,  glo 
rious  in  summer  beauty,  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and  bereft  of 
every  trace  of  former  comeliness.  All  this  it  does  —  at  times 
to  all  !  to  the  reflective  always  ! — the  solitary  contemplation  of 
the  decaying  year. 

Yet  it  was  not  this  alone,  it  was  not  this  at  all,  that  blanched 
the  cheek  and  dimmed  the  glance  of  Marian,  as  at  a  very  early 
hour  of  the  morning  she  was  sauntering  alone,  with  downcast 
eyes  and  slow  uncertain  gait,  beside  the  margin  of  the  stream, 
in  the  sheltered  garden.  For  she  did  not,  in  truth,  seem  to 
contemplate  at  all  the  face  of  external  nature,  or  so  much  as  to 
note  the  changes  which  had  taken  place  during  her  absence  ; 
yet  were  those  changes  very  great,  and  nowhere  probably  so 
strongly  marked  as  in  the  very  spot  where  she  was  wandering, 
for  when  she  stood  there  last  to  cull  a  nosegay,  ere  she  parted, 
the  whole  of  that  fair  nook  was  glowing  with  the  brightest  col 
ors,  and  redolent  with  the  most  fragrant  perfumes,  while  hun 
dreds  of  feathered  songsters  were  filling  every  brake  and 
thicket  with  bursts  of  joyous  melody  —  and  now  only  a  few,  the 
hardiest  of  the  late  autumnal  flowers,  displayed  their  scattered 
blossoms,  and  those  too  crisp  and  faded,  among  sere  leaves  and 
withered  branches  ;  while,  for  the  mellow  warblings  of  the 
thrush  and  blackbird,  nothing  was  heard  except  the  feeble 
piping  of  a  solitary  robin,  mixed  with  the  wailing  rush  of  the 
swollen  streamlet. 

For  nearly  an  hour  she  walked  to  and  fro  buried  in  deep 
and  melancholy  silence,  and  thinking,  as  it  seemed  from  her 
air  and  gestures,  most  profoundly — occasionally  she  paused 
for  a  few  seconds  in  her  walk  to  and  fro,  and  stood  still, 


THE    SECRET    SORROW.  65 

gazing  abstractedly  on  some  spot  in  the  withered  herbage,  on 
some  pool  of  the  brooklet,  with  her  mind  evidently  far  away, 
and  once  or  twice  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  wrung  them  pas 
sionately,  and  sighed  very  deeply.  While  she  was  yielding  thus 
to  some  deep  inward  sorrow — for  it  could  be  no  trivial  passing 
grief  that  had  so  suddenly  and  so  completely  changed  so  quick 
and  gay  a  spirit  —  a  gentle  footstep  sounded  upon  the  gravel- 
walk,  behind  a  cluster  of  thick  leafy  lilacs,  and  in  a  moment 
Annabel  stepped  from  their  screen  upon  the  mossy  greensward. 
Her  pale  and  pensive  features  were  even  paler  and  more  thought 
ful  than  was  common,  and  her  eyes  showed  as  if  she  had  been 
weeping,  yet  her  step  was  as  light  and  elastic  as  a  young 
fawn's,  and  a  bright  smile  dimpled  her  cheek,  as  she  addressed 
her  sister. 

"  Dear  Marian,  why  so  early  ?  And  why  did  you  not  call 
me  to  share  your  morning  walk  ?  What  ails  you,  dearest  ?  tell 
me.  For  I  have  seen  you,  from  my  window,  walking  here 
up  and  down  so  sorrowful  and  sad  — " 

"Oh,  can  you  ask  me  —  can  you  ask  me,  Annabel?"  ex 
claimed  the  lovely  girl,  in  a  wild,  earnest  burst  of  passion — 
"  can  you  not  see  that  my  heart  is  breaking  ?"  and  with  the 
words  she  flung  her  arms  about  her  sister's  neck,  and  burying 
her  face  in  her  bosom  fell  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

Annabel  clasped  Marian  to  her  heart,  and  held  her  there  for 
many  moments,  kissing  away  the  big  drops  from  her  cheeks, 
and  soothing  her  with  many  a  kind  and  soft  caress,  before  she 
replied  to  her  incoherent  and  wild  words — but  when  her  vio 
lent  sobbing  had  subsided — 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  understand  at  all,  nor  can  I 
even  guess,  what  had  so  grievously  afflicted  you ;  but,  if  you 
fancy  that  we  shall  be  parted,  that  our  lives  will  hereafter  be 
divided,  and  weep  for  that  fond  fancy,  it  is  but  a  false  appre 
hension  that  distresses  you.  I  go  not  hence  at  all,  dear  sister, 

6* 


66  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

until  these  fearful  wars  be  over ;  and,  then,  I  go  not  till  the 
course  of  time  shall  place  De  Vaux  in  his  good  father's  station, 
which,  I  pray  Heaven,  shall  not  fall  out  for  years.  And 
when  I  do  go — when  I  do  go  away  from  this  dear  happy  spot, 
you  can  not,  no,  you  did  not  dream,  my  sister,  that  you  should 
not  go  with  me.  Oh,  if  you  did  dream  that,  it  would  be  very 
hard  for  me  to  pardon  you. 

"Oh,  no — no!  no!  dear  Annabel,"  replied  the  other,  not 
lifting  up  her  eyes  from  the  fond  bosom  on  which  she  hung  so 
heavily,  and  speaking  in  a  thick  husky  voice,  "  it  is  not  that  at 
all;  but  I  am  so  unhappy — so  miserable  —  so  despairing! 
Oh,  would  to  God  —  oh,  would  to  God  !  that  I  had  never  gone 
hence  —  or  that  Ernest  De  Vaux,  at  least,  had  not  come  hither  !" 

"  Nay !  now,  I  must  know  what  you  mean,"  Annabel  an 
swered  mildly,  but  at  the  same  time  very  firmly  ;  "  I  must,  in 
deed,  dear  Marian;  for  either, such  words  have  a  meaning,  in 
which. case  it  is  absolutely  right  that  I,  your  sister  and  his  affi 
anced  wife,  should  know  it ;  or  if  they  have  not  any,  are  cruel 
equally  and  foolish.  So  tell  me — tell  me,  dear  one,  if  there  be 
aught  that  I  should  know  ;  and,  in  all  cases,  let  me  share  your 
sorrow." 

"Oh!  do  not — do  not  ask  me,  Annabel ;  oh!  oh!  to  think 
that  we  two,  who  have  been  so  happy,  should  be  wretched  now." 

"  I  know  not  what  you  would  say,  Marian  ;  but  your  strange 
words  awake  strange  thoughts  within  me  !  We  have,  indeed, 
been  happy !  fond,  happy,  innocent,  dear  sisters  ;  and  I  can 
see  no  cause  why  we  should  now  be  otherwise.  I,  at  least,  am 
still  happy,  Marian,  unless  it  be  to  witness  your  wild  sorrow ; 
and,  if  I  know  myself,  no  earthly  sorrow  would  ever  make  me 
wretched,  much  less  repining,  or  despairing." 

"  Yes,  you — yes,  you  indeed  may  yet  be  happy,  blessed 
with  a  cheerful  home,  a  noble,  gallant  husband,  and  it  may  be 
one  day,  sweet  prattlers  at  your  knee,  but,  I  —  oh!  God!" 


A    GENTLE    REPROOF.  67 

and  she  again  burst  into  a  fierce  agony  of  tears  and  sobbing. 
Her  sister,  for  a  time,  strove  to  console  her  but  she  soon  found 
not  only  that  her  efforts  were  in  vain,  but  that,  so  far  as  she 
could  judge,  Marian's  tears  only  flowed  the  faster,  her  sobs  be 
came  more  suffocating,  the  more  she  would  have  soothed  them. 
When  she  became  aware  of  this,  then  she  withdrew  gradually 
her  arms  from  her  waist,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  calm,  melan 
choly  voice,  full  at  the  same  time  of  deep  sadness,  and  firm,  de 
cided  resolution. 

"  Marian,"  she  said,  "  I  see,  and  how  I  am  grieved  to  see  it, 
no  words  can  possibly  express,  that  you  look  not  to  me  for  sym 
pathy  or  consolation — nay,  more,  that  you  shrink  back  from 
my  caresses,  as  if  they  were  insincere  or  hateful  to  you.  Your 
words,  too,  are  so  wild  and  whirling,  that  for  my  life  I  can  not 
guess  what  is  their  meaning,  or  their  cause  —  I  only  can  sus 
pect,  or  I  should  rather  say,  can  only  dread,  that  you  have  suf 
fered  some  very  grievous  wrong,  or  done  some  very  grievous 
sin  ;  and  as  I  must  believe  the  last  impossible,  my  fears  still 
centre  on  the  first  dark  apprehension.  Could  you  confide  in 
me,  I  might  advise,  might  aid,  and  could,  at  least,  most  certainly 
console  you !  Why  you  can  not  or  will  not  trust  me,  you 
can  know  only.  Side  by  side  have  we  grown  up,  since  we 
were  little  tottering  things,  guiding  our  weak  steps  hand  in 
hand  in  mutual  dependence,  seldom  apart,  I  might  say  never — 
for  now,  since  you  have  been  away,  I -have  thought  of  you  half 
the  day,  and  dreamed  of  you  all  night  —  my  earliest  comrade, 
my  best  friend,  my  own,  my  only  sister !  And  now  we  are 
two  grown-up  maidens,  with  no  one  exactly  fit  to  counsel  or 
console  us,  except  ourselves  alone  —  since  it  has  pleased  our 
heavenly  Father,  in  his  wisdom,  for  so  long  to  deprive  us  of 
our  dear  mother's  guidance.  Wre  are  two  lone  girls,  Marian, 
and  never  yet,  so  far  as  I  know  or  can  recollect,  have  we  had 
aught  to  be  ashamed  of,  or  any  secret  one  should  not  have  com- 


68  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

mimicated  to  the  other.  And  now  there  is  not  one  thought  in 
my  mind,  one  feeling  or  affection  in  my  heart,  which  I  would 
hide  from  you,  my  sister.  What  then  can  be  this  heavy  sin, 
or  sorrow,  which  you  are  now  ashamed,  or  fearful,  to  relate  to 
one,  who  surely  loves  you  as  no  one  else  can  do,  beneath  the 
canopy  of  heaven  ?  Marian,  you  must  reply  to  me  in  full,  or  I 
must  leave  you  till  better  thoughts  shall  be  awakened  in  your 
soul,  and  till  you  judge  more  truly  of  those  who  most  esteem 
you." 

"  Too  true  !  it  is  too  true  !"  Marian  replied — "  no  one  has  ever 
loved  me  as  you  have  done,  sweet  Annabel  —  and  now,  no  one 
will  love  me  any  more — no  one  —  no  one,  for  ever.  But  you 
are  wrong,  quite  wrong,  when  you  suppose  that  any  one  has  in 
jured  me,  or  that  as  yet  I  have  done  any  wrong  ;  alas  !  alas  ! 
that  I  should  even  have  thought  sin  !  Oh  !  no  ;  Annabel,  dear 
Annabel,  I  will  bear  all  my  woes  myself,  and  God  will  give 
me  grace  to  conquer  all  temptations.  Pardon  me,  sister  dear, 
pardon  me  ;  for  it  is  not  that  I  am  ashamed,  or  that  I  fear  to  tell 
you  ;  but  that  to  save  my  own  life,  I  would  not  plant  one  thorn 
in  your  calm  bosom.  No  !  I  will  see  you  happy  ;  and  will  re 
sist  the  evil  one,  that  he  shall  flee  from  me  ;  and  God  will  give 
me  strength,  and  you  will  pray  for  me,  and  we  shall  all  be 
blessed." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  the  wildness  and  the  strangeness  of  her 
manner  passed  away,  and  a  calm  smile  flickered  across  her  fea 
tures,  and  she  looked  her  sister  steadfastly  in  the  eye,  and  cast 
her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  kissed  her  tenderly  as  she  fin 
ished  speaking. 

But  it  was  plain  to  see  that  Annabel  was  by  no  means  satis 
fied  ;  whether  it  was  that  she  was  anxious  merely,  and  uneasy 
about  the  discomposure  of  her  sister's  mind ;  or  whether  some 
thing  of  suspicion  had  disturbed  the  even  tenor  of  her  own,  ap 
peared  not.  Her  color  came  and  went  more  quickly  than  was 


A  SISTER'S  DISTRUST.  69 

usual  to  her,  and  the  glance  of  her  gentle  blue  eye  dwelt  with 
a  doubting  and  irresolute  expression  on  Marian's  face,  as  she 
made  answer  : — 

"  Very  glad  am  I  that,  as  you  tell  me,  Marian,  you  have  not 
suffered  aught,  or  done  aught  evil ;  and  I  trust  that  you  tell  me 
truly.  Beyond  this,  I  can  not — I  can  not,  I  confess  it  —  sympa 
thize  with  you  at  all ;  for  in  order  to  sympathize,  one  most  un 
derstand,  and  that,  you  know,  I  do  not.  What  sin  you  should 
have  thought  of,  I  can  not  so  much  as  conceive.  You  say  you 
have  resisted  your  temptations  hitherto  —  but,  oh,  what  possible 
temptations  to  aught  evil  can  have  beset  you  in  this  dear,  peace 
ful  home  ?  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  be  strengthened  to  resist 
them  further.  You  tell  me,  Marian,  that  you  would  not  plant  a 
thorn  in  my  calm  bosom.  It  is  true  that  my  bosom  was  calm 
yestermorn,  and  very  happy  ;  but  now  I  should  speak  falsely, 
were  I  to  say  that  it  is  so.  What  thorn  you  would  plant  in  my 
heart  I  know  riot,  by  speaking  openly  —  nor  how  you  could 
suppose  it ;  but  this  I  do  know,  Marian,  that  you  have  set  dis 
trust,  and  dark  suspicion,  and  deep  sorrow,  in  my  soul  this  morn 
ing  :  distrust  of  yourself,  dear  Marian  —  for  what  can  these 
half-confidences  breed  except  distrust  ?  suspicion  of,  I  know 
not — wish  not  to  know — dare  not  to  fancy,  what;  deep  sor 
row  that,  already,  even  from  one  short  separation,  a  great  gulf 
is  spread  out  between  us.  I  will  not  press  you  now  to  tell  me 
any  more  ;  but  this  I  must  impress  upon  you,  that  you  have  laid 
a  burden  upon  me,  which,  save  you  only,  no  earthly  being  can 
remove  ;  which  nothing  can  alleviate  except  its  prompt  removal. 
Nay!  Marian,  nay  !  answer  me  nothing  now — nothing  in  this 
strong  heat  of  passionate  emotion !  think  of  it  at  your  calmer 
leisure,  and,  if  you  can,  in  duty  to  yourself  and  others,  give  me 
your  ample  confidence,  I  pray  you,  Marian,  do  so.  In  the  mean 
time  go  to  your  chamber,  dearest,  and  wipe  away  these  traces 
of  your  tears,  and  re-arrange  your  hair.  Our  guests  will  be  as- 


70  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

sembled  before  this,  and  I  have  promised  Ernest  that  we  will 
all  ride  out,  and  see  his  falcons  fly,  this  beautiful  morning." 

Marian  made  no  reply  at  all,  but  following  her  sister  into  the 
house,  hurried  up  to  her  chamber,  to  re-adjust  her  garments, 
and  remove  from  her  face  the  signs  of  her  late  disorder.  Mean 
while,  sad  and  suspicious  of  she  knew  not  what,  and  only  by  a 
violent  effort  concealing  her  heart-felt  anxiety,  Annabel  joined 
her  guests  in  the  pleasant  summer-parlor.  All  were  assembled 
when  she  entered,  and  all  the  preparations  for  the  morning 
meal  duly  arranged  upon  the  hospitable  board  —  the  morning 
meal,  how  widely  different  from  that  of  modern  days,  how  char 
acteristic  of  those  strong  stirring  times,  when  every  gentleman 
was  from  his  boyhood  half  a  soldier,  when  every  lady  was  pre 
pared  for  deeds  of  heroism.  There  were  no  luxuries,  effemi 
nate  and  childish,  of  tea  and  chocolate,  or  coffee,  although  the 
latter  articles  were  just  beginning  to  be  known  ;  no  dry  toast  or 
hot  muffins  ;  nor  aught  else  of  those  things,  which  we  now  con 
sider  the  indispensables  of  the  first  meal :  but  silver  flagons 
mantling  with  mighty  ale,  and  flasks  of  Bordeaux  wine,  and 
rich  canary,  crowned  the  full  board,  which  groaned  beneath 
sirloins  of  beef,  and  hams,  heads  of  the  wild  boar,  and  venison 
pasties,  and  many  kinds  of  game  and  wild  fowl. 

Ernest  de  Yaux  arose,  as  Annabel  came  in,  from  the  seat 
which  he  had  occupied  by  the  good  vicar's  lady,  whom  he  had 
been  regaling  with  a  thousand  anecdotes  of  the  court,  and  as 
many  gay  descriptions  of  the  last  modes,  till  she  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  that  he  was  absolute  perfection,  and  hastened  for 
ward  to  offer  her  his  morning  salutation.  But  there  was  some 
thing  of  embarrassment  in  his  demeanor,  something  of  coldness 
in  her  manner,  which  was  perceived  for  a  moment  by  all  her 
relatives  and  friends  ;  but  it  passed  away,  as  it  were,  in  a  mo 
ment  ;  for,  by  an  effort,  he  recovered  almost  instantly  his  self- 
possession,  and  began  talking  with  light,  careless  pleasantry, 


SCHOOL    FOR    THE    HEART.  71 

that  raised  a  smile  upon  the  lips  of  all  who  heard  him,  and  had 
the  effect  immediately  of  chasing  the  cloud  from  the  brow  of 
Annabel.  And  she,  after  a  few  minutes,  as  if  she  had  done  in 
justice  to  her  lover  in  her  heart,  and  was  desirous  of  effacing 
its  remembrance  from  both  herself  and  him,  gave  free  rein  to 
her  feelings,  and  was  the  same  sweet,  joyous  creature  that  she 
had  been,  since  his  arrival  had  awakened  new  sensations  and 
new  dreams  in  her  young,  guileless  heart. 

Then,  before  half  an  hour  had  elapsed,  more  beautiful,  per 
haps,  than  ever,  Marian  made  her  appearance.  Her  rich  pro 
fusion  of  brown  curls  clustered  on  her  cheeks,  and  flowed  down 
her  neck  from  beneath  a  slashed  Spanish  hat  of  velvet,  with  a 
long  ostrich  feather,  and  her  unrivaled  figure  was  set  off  to  more 
than  usual  advantage,  by  the  long  waist  and  flowing  draperies 
of  her  green  velvet  riding-dress.  Her  face  was,  perhaps,  some 
what  paler  than  its  ordinary  hue,  when  she  first  entered,  but  as 
she  met  the  eye  of  Ernest,  brow,  cheeks,  and  neck,  were  crim 
soned  with  a  burning  flush,  which  passed  away,  however,  in 
stantly,  leaving  her  not  the  least  embarrassed  or  confused,  but 
perfectly  collected,  and  as  it  seemed,  full  of  a  quiet,  innocent 
mirthfulness. 

Nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than  was  her  manner,  during 
the  long,  protracted  meal,  toward  her  sister's  lover.  She 
seemed  to  feel  toward  him,  already,  as  if  he  were  a  tried  friend 
and  brother.  Her  air  was  perfectly  familiar,  as  she  addressed 
him,  yet  free  from  the  least  touch  of  forwardness,  the  slightest 
levity  or  coquettishness.  She  met  his  admiring  gaze  —  for  he 
did,  at  times,  gaze  on  her  with  visible  admiration,  yet  admi 
ration  of  so  quiet  and  dispassionate  a  kind,  as  a  good  brother 
might  bestow  upon  a  sister's  beauty  —  with  calm  unconscious 
ness,  or  with  a  girlish  mirth,  that  defied  misconstruction. 

And  Annabel  looked  on  —  alas  for  Annabel!  —  and  felt  her 
doubts  and  suspicions  vanishing  away  every  moment.  The 


72  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

vague  distrust  that  had  crept  into  her  heart,  melted  away  like 
mist  wreaths  from  before  the  sunbeam.  She  only  wondered 
now,  what  the  anxiety,  what  thS  distrust  could  possibly  have 
been,  which,  for  a  moment,  had  half  maddened  her. 

Then  she  began  to  marvel,  what  could  the  sorrow  be  which, 
scarce  an  hour  before,  had  weighed  so  heavily  on  Marian ;  and 
which  had  in  that  brief  space  so  utterly  departed.  "  It  must 
be,"  she  thought,  as  she  gazed  on  her  pure,  speaking  features, 
and  the  clear  sparkle  of  her  bright  blue  eye,  "  that  she  too  loves, 
loves  possibly  in  vain  ;  that  she  has  lost  her  young  heart  during 
her  absence  from  her  home  ;  and  has  now  overmastered  her 
despair,  her  soul-consuming  anguish,  to  sympathize  in  her  sis 
ter's  happiness."  And  then  she  fancied  how  she  would  win 
from  her  that  secret  sorrow,  and  soothe  it  till  she  should  forget 
the  faithless  one,  and  tend  her  with  a  mother's  fond  anxiety. 
Alas  !  alas,  for  Annabel ! 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  morning  meal  was  ended  ;  the  sun  already  high  in  tho 
clear  heavens,  and  the  thin  mist  wreaths  were  dispersing  from 
the  broad  valley,  and  the  bright  river ;  and  now  a  merry  caval 
cade  swept  round  the  lawn  from  the  stables  —  a  dozen  foresters 
and  grooms,  well  mounted,  with  led  horses,  two  of  the  latter 
decked  with  velvet  side-saddles,  which  were  then  used  by 
ladies  ;  and  seven  or  eight  serving-men,  on  foot,  with  hounds 
and  spaniels  in  their  leashes  ;  and  among  them,  conspicuous 
above  the  rest,  the  falconer,  with  his  attendants,  one  bearing  a 
large  frame  whereon  were  cast  —  such  was  the  technical  jargon 
used  in  the  mystery  of  trainers  —  eight  or  ten  long-winged  fal- 


A    HAWKING    PARTY.  73 

cons,  goshawks,  and  gerfalcons,  and  peregrines,  with  all  their 
gay  paraphernalia  of  hoods,  and  bells,  and  jesses. 

A  little  while  afterward  the  fair  girls  came  out,  Annabel  now 
attired  like  her  sister  in  the  velvet  riding-robe,  and  the  slashed, 
graceful  hat,  and  were  assisted  to  their  saddles  by  the  young 
lover.  Then  he,  too,  bounded  to  his  noble  charger's  back,  and 
the  others  of  the  company  in  their  turn  mounted,  and  the  whole 
party  rode  off,  merrily,  to  the  green  meadows  by  the  fair  river's 
side. 

Away !  away !  the  spaniels  are  uncoupled,  and  questing  far 
and  wide  among  the  long  green  flags,  and  water  briony,  and 
mallows,  that  fringe  the  banks  of  many  a  creek  and  inlet  of  the 
river  —  over  the  russet  stubbles  —  up  the  thick  alder  coppices, 
that  fringe  the  steep  ravines. 

Away !  away !  the  smooth  soft  turf,  the  slight  and  brushy 
hedges,  invite  the  free  and  easy  gallop,  invite  the  fearless  leap ! 
Away!  with  hawk  unhooded  on  the  wrist  and  ready — with 
graceful  seat,  light  hand,  and  bounding  heart !  See  how  the 
busy  spaniels  snuff  the  hot  scent,  and  ply  their  feathery  tails 
among  the  dry  fern  on  the  bank  of  that  old  sunny  ditch  ;  there 
has  the  game  been  lately — hold  hard,  bold  cavaliers — hold  hard, 
my  gentle  ladies  ! — hurry  not  now  the  dogs.  Hush  !  hark!  the 
black  King  Charles  is  whimpering  already  :  that  beautiful  long- 
eared  and  silky  water-spaniel  joins  in  the  subdued  chorus  —  how 
they  thread  in  and  out  the  withering  fern-stalks,  how  they  rush 
through  the  crackling  brambles  !  Yaff!  yaff! — now  they  give 
tongue  aloud — yaff!  yaff!  yaff!  yaff!  —  and  whir-r-r  upsprings 
the  well-grown  covey  —  now  give  your  hearts  to  the  loud  whoop ! 
— now  fling  your  hawks  aloft ! — now  gather  well  your  bridles 
in  your  hands,  now  spur  your  gallant  horses  —  on!  on!  sweep 
over  the  low  fence,  skim  the  green  meadow,  dash  at  the  rapid 
brook — ladies  and  cavaliers  pell-mell  —  all  riding  for  them 
selves  and  careless  of  the  rest,  forgetful  of  all  fear,  all  thought, 


74*  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

in  the  fierce,  fast  career,  as  with  eyes  all  turned  heavenward  to 
mark  the  soaring  contest  of  the  birds,  trusting  their  good  steeds 
only,  to  bear  them  swift  and  safely,  they  drive  in  giddy  routes 
down  the  broad  valley. 

And  now  the  flight  is  over,  each  gallant  hawk  has  struck  his 
cowering  quarry ;  the  lures  are  shaken  in  the  air,  the  falconer's 
whoop  and  whistle  recall  the  hovering  falcon,  and  on  they  go 
at  slower  pace  to  beat  for  fresh  game  —  and  lo  !  flip-flap,  there 
rises  the  first  woodcock  of  the  season. 

"  Ho  !  mark  him — mark  him  down,  good  forester  —  we  must 
not  miss  that  fellow — the  very  prince  of  game  —  the  king  he 
would  be,  save  that  gray  heronshaw  of  right  has  old  claim  to 
the  throne  of  falconrie  !" 

"  Lo  !  there,  my  masters,  he  is  down — down  in  that  gulley's 
bank,  where  the  broom  and  the  brachens  feather  the  sunny 
slope,  and  the  long,  rank  grasses  seem  almost  to  choke  its 
mossy  runnel." 

"  Quick!  quick!  unhood  the  lanner — the  young  and  speckled- 
breasted  lanner  !  —  cast  off  the  old  gray -headed  gerfalcon  — 
soh,  Diamond,  my  brave  bird !  mark  his  quick,  glancing  eye, 
and  his  proud  crest,  soh  !  cast  him  off,  and  he  will  wheel  around 
our  heads,  nor  leave  us  till  we  flush  the  woodcock.  No  !  no  ! 
hold  the  young  lanner  hard,  let  him  not  fly,  he  is  too  mettle 
some  and  proud  of  wing  to  trust  to  —  and  couple  all  the  dogs 
up,  except  the  stanch  red  setter." 

"  Now  we  will  steal  on  him  up  wind,  and  give  him  every 
chance." 

"  Best  cross  the  gully  here,  fair  dames,  for  it  is  something 
deep  and  boggy,  and  if  ye  were  to  brave  it,  in  the  fury  of  the 
gallop,  you  might  be  mired  for  your  pains." 

"  That  bird  will  show  you  sport,  be  sure  of  it,  for  lo  !  the  field 
beyond  is  thickly  set  with  stunted  thorns,  and  tufts  of  alder- 
bushes  ;  if  your  hawks  be  not  keen  of  sight,  and  quick  of  wings 


A    CHASE.  75 

too,  be  sure  that  lie  will  dodge  them  ;  and  if  he  reach  yon  hill 
side  only,  all  covered  as  it  is  with  evergreens,  dense  holly 
brakes,  and  thick  oak  sapplings,  he  is  as  safe  there  in  that  cov 
ert,  as  though  he  were  a  thousand  leagues  away  in  some  deep 
glen  of  the  wild  Atlas  mountains." 

"  Lo  !  there  he  goes,  the  gray  hawk  after  him — by  heaven  ! 
in  fair  speed  he  outstrips  the  gerfalcon,  he  does  not  condescend 
to  dodge  or  double,  but  flies  wild  and  high  toward  the  purple 
moorland,  and  there  we  can  not  follow  him." 

u  Ride,  De  Vaux,  gallop  for  your  life  —  cut  in,  cut  in  between 
the  bird  and  the  near  ridge  —  soh  !  bravely  done,  black  charger 
— now  cast  the  lanner  loose  !  so  !  that  will  turn  him." 

"  See  !  he  has  turned  ;  and  now  he  must  work  for  it.  The 
angle  he  has  made  has  brought  old  Diamond  up  against  his 
weather  wing ;  now!  he  will  strike — now!  now!" 

But  lo  !  the  wary  bird  has  dodged,  and  the  hawk  who  had 
soared,  and  was  in  the  act  of  pouncing,  checked  his  fleet  pinion 
and  turned  after  him — how  swift  he  flies  dead  in  the  wind's 
eye  —  and  the  wind  is  rising;  he  can  not  face  it  now — tack 
and  tack,  how  he  twists — how  cleverly  he  beats  to  windward  ; 
but  now  the  odds  are  terribly  against  him,  the  cunning  falcons 
have  divided,  and  are  now  flying  sharply  to  cut  him  off,  one  at 
each  termination  of  his  tacks — the  lanner  has  outstripped  him. 

"Whoop!  Robin,  whoop!  —  soh!  call  him  up  the  wind — 
up  the  wind,  falconer,  or  he  will  miss  his  stroke.  There  ! 
there  he  towers — up!  up!  in  airy  circles — he  poises  his 
broad  wing — he  swoops  —  alack,  poor  woodcock !  but  no!  he 
has  —  by  Pan,  the  god  of  hunters  ! — he  has  missed  his  cast — 
no  swallow  ever  winged  it  swifter  than  the  wild  bird  of  pas 
sage  :  not  now  does  he  fly  high  among  the  clouds,  but  skims 
the  very  surface  of  the  lawn,  twisting  round  every  tree  and  baf 
fling  the  keen  falcons." 

Now  he  is  scarce  ten  paces  from  his  covert ;  the  old  bird, 


76  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

Diamond,  flying  like  lightning,  struggles  in  vain  to  weather 
him  —  in  vain — the  game  dashes  behind  the  boll  of  a  tall  up 
right  oak,  darts  down  among  the  hollies,  and  is  lost.  Well 
flown,  brave  quarry  —  well  flown,  noble — ha!  the  hawk,  the 
brave  old  hawk,  bent  only  on  retrieving  his  lost  flight,  his  eye 
set  too  steadily  on  the  bird  which  he  so  fiercely  struggled  to 
outfly,  has  dashed  with  the  full  impetus  of  his  arrowy  flight 
against  the  gnarled  stem  of  the  oak.  He  rebounds  from  it  like 
a  ball  from  the  iron  target :  never  so  much  as  once  flaps  his 
fleet  pinions  ;  tears  not  the  ground  with  beak  or  single.  Dia 
mond,  brave  Diamond  is  dead  —  and  pitying  eyes  look  down 
on  him ;  and  gentle  tears  are  shed  ;  and  the  soft  hands  that 
were  wont  to  fondle  his  high  crest  and  smooth  his  ruffled  wings, 
compose  his  shattered  pinions,  and  sleek  his  blood-stained 
plumage.  Alas,  brave  Diamond! — but  fate  —  it  is  the  fate  of 
war ! 

Another  flight  —  another  glowing  gallop  to  make  the  blood 
dance  blithely  in  our  veins — :  to  drive  dull  care  from  our  hearts  ! 

But  no,  the  sylvan  meal  is  spread  :  down  by  that  leafy  nook, 
under  the  still  green  canopy  of  that  gigantic  oak,  where  the 
pure  spring  wells  out  so  clear  and  limpid,  from  the  bright  yel 
low  gravel  under  its  gnarled  and  tortuous  roots  —  there  is  the 
snow-white  linen  spread  on  the  mossy  green  sward  ;  there  the 
cold  pasty  and  the  larded  capon  tempt  the  keen  appetite  of  the 
jolly  sportsman  ;  there,  plunged  in  the  glassy  waters,  the  tall 
flasks  of  champagne  are  cooling!  Who  knows  not  the  deli 
cious  zest  with  which  we  banquet  on  the  green  sward ;  the 
merry,  joyous  ease  which,  all  restraint  and  ceremonial  ban 
ished,  renders  the  sylvan  meal,  in  the  cool  shadow  by  the  rip 
pling  brook,  so  indescribably  delightful?  And  all  who  were 
collected  there  were  for  a  moment  happy!  —  and  many,  in  sad 
after-days,  remembered  that  gay  feast,  and  dwelt  upon  the 
young  hopes,  which  were  so  flattering  then,  hopes  which  so 


CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  77 

soon  decayed — and  lingered  on  the  contemplation  of  that  soon 
perished  bliss,  as  if  the  great  Italian  had  erred,  when  he  de 
clared  so  wisely  that  to  the  sons  of  man  — 

"  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tiempo  felice 
Nella  miseria." 

The  bright  wine  sparkled  in  the  goblet,  but  brighter  flashed  the 
azure  eyes  of  Marian,  for  her  whole  face  was  radiant  with  wild 
starry  beauty.  Was  it  the  thrilling  rapture  of  the  gallop,  that 
sent  her  blood  boiling  with  strange  excitement  "  through  every 
petty  artery  of  her  body" — was  it  the  spirit-stirring  chase 
alone,  or  did  the  rich  blood  of  the  Gallic  grape,  sparingly  tasted 
though  it  was,  lend  something  of  unnatural  power  ?  hark  to  the 
silvery  tones  of  that  sweet  ringing  laugh  —  and  now  how  deep 
a  blush  mantles  her  brow,  her  neck,  her  bosom,  when  in  re 
ceiving  her  glass  from  the  hand  of  Ernest,  their  fingers  min 
gled  for  a  moment. 

But  Ernest  is  unmoved,  and  calm,  and  seemingly  uncon 
scious —  and  Annabel,  fond  Annabel,  rejoices  to  mark  her  sis 
ter's  spirits  so  happily,  so  fully,  as  it  seems,  recovered  from 
that  over-mastering  sorrow.  She  saw  not  the  hot  blush,  she 
noted  not  its  cause  —  and  yet,  can  it  be  —  can  it  be  that  casual 
pressure  was  the  cause  ?  —  can  it  be  love  ? — love  for  a  sister's 
bridegroom,  that  kindles  so  the  eye — that  flushes  so  the  cheek 
— that  thrills  so  the  life-blood  of  lovely  Marian !  Away ! 
away  with  contemplation. 

Ernest  reflects  not,  for  his  brow  is  smooth  and  all  unruffled 
by  a  thought,  his  lips  are  smiling,  his  pulse  calm  and  temperate 
—  and  Marian  pauses  not — and  Annabel  suspects  not  —  Hush ! 
they  are  singing.  Lo  !  how  the  sweet  and  flute-like  tones  of 
the  fair  girls  are  blended  with  the  rich  and  deep  contralto  of 
De  Yaux.  Lo !  they  are  singing — singing  the  wood-notes 
wild  of  the  great  master  of  the  soul  — 

7* 


78  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"  Heigbo  !  sing  heigho !  under  the  green  holly ! 
Most  friendship  is  feigning, 
Most  loving  mere  folly  !" 

Alas  for  trusting  Annabel!  —  soon  shall  she  wake  from  her 
fond  dream,  soon  wake  to  wo,  to  anguish.  Again  they  mount 
their  steeds  —  again  they  sweep  the  meadows,  down  to  the  very 
brink  of  the  broad,  deep,  transparent  Wharfe  —  and  now  the 
heronshaw  is  sprung.  He  flaps  his  dark  grey  vans,  the  her 
mit-bird  of  the  waters,  and  slowly  soars  away,  till  the  falconer's 
shrill  whoop,  arid  the  sharp  whistling  flutter  of  the  fleet  pinions 
in  his  rear,  arouse  him  to  his  danger.  Up!  up!  he  soars  — 
up!  up!  scaling  the  very  sky  in  small  but  swift  gyrations  — 
while  side  by  side  the  well-matched  falcons  wheel  circling 
around  him  still,  and  still  out-topping  him,  till  all  the  three  are 
lost  in  the  dull,  fleecy  clouds — the  clouds  !  —  no  one  had  seen 
— no  one  has  even  dreamed,  engrossed  in  the  wild  fervor  of 
the  sport,  that  all  the  sky  was  overclouded ;  and  the  thick 
blackness  of  the  thunderstorm,  driving  up  wind,  and  settling 
down  in  terrible  proximity  to  the  earth,  was  upon  them  unseen 
and  unexpected. 

Away!  away!  what  heed  they  the  dark  storm-clouds  —  the 
increasing  flash  !  —  these  bold  equestrians  !  Heavens  !  what  a 
flash  —  how  keen!  how  close  !  how  livid !  the  whole  horizon 
shone  out  for  a  moment's  space  one  broad  blue  glare  of  fearful 
living  light  —  and  simultaneously  the  thunder  burst  above  them 
—  a  crash  as  of  ten  thousand  pieces  of  earth's  heaviest  ord- 
,  nance,  shot  off  in  one  wild  clatter.  The  horses  of  the  party 
were  all  careering  at  their  speed,  their  maddest  speed,  across 
a  broad,  green  pasture,  bordered  on  the  right  hand  by  the  wide 
channel  of  the  Wharfe  and  on  the  left  by  an  impracticable  fence 
of  tall  old  thorns,  with  a  deep  ditch  on  either  side,  and  a  stout 
timber  railing.  The  two  fair  sisters  were  in  front,  leading  the 
joyous  cavalcade,  with  their  eyes  in  the  clouds,  their  hearts 


THE    FEARFUL   RIDE.  79 

full  of  the  fire  of  the  chase,  when  that  broad  dazzling  glare 
burst  full  in  their  faces. 

Terrified  by  the  livid  flash  and  the  appalling  crash  of  the 
reverberated  thunder,  the  horses  of  the  sisters  bolted  diverse  — 
Annabel's  toward  the  broad,  rapid  Wharfe,  between  which  and 
the  meadow  through  which  they  had  been  so  joyously  career 
ing,  there  was  no  fence  or  barrier  at  the  spot  where  they  were 
then  riding — Marian's  toward  the  dangerous  oxfence,  which 
has  been  mentioned !  The  charger  of  De  Vaux,  who  rode 
next  behind  them,  started  indeed,  and  whirled  about,  but  was 
almost  immediately  controlled  by  the  strong  arm  and  skilful 
horsemanship  of  his  bold  rider  ;  but  of  the  grooms  who  followed, 
several  were  instantly  dismounted,  and  there  were  only  three 
or  four  who,  mastering  their  terrified  and  fractious  beasts,  gal 
loped  off  to  the  aid  of  their  young  mistresses.  They  were  both 
good  equestrians,  and  ordinarily  fearless,  but  in  such  peril  what 
woman  could  preserve  her  wonted  intrepidity  unshaken — the 
sky  as  black  as  night,  with  ever  and  anon  a  sharp  clear  stream 
of  the  electric  fluid  dividing  the  dark  storm-clouds,  and  the  con 
tinuous  thunder  rolling  and  crashing  overhead  —  their  horses 
mad  with  terror,  and  endowed  by  that  very  madness  with  ten 
fold  speed  and  strength!  —  Annabel,  whose  clear  head,  and 
calm,  though  resolute  temper,  gave  her  no  small  advantage  over 
her  volatile,  impetuous  sister,  sat,  it  is  true,  as  firmly  in  her  sad 
dle,  as  though  she  had  been  practising  her  menage  in  the  riding- 
school —  and  held  her  fiery  jennet  with  a  firm,  steady  hand  ; 
but  naturally  her  strength  was  insufficient  to  control  its  fierce 
and  headlong  speed  ;  so  that  she  saw  upon  the  instant,  that  she 
must  be  carried  into  the  whirling  waters  of  the  swift  river  — 
for  a  moment  she  thought  of  casting  herself  to  the  ground,  but 
it  scarcely  required  one  moment  of  reflection  to  show  her  that 
such  a  course  could  lead  but  to  destruction.  So  on  she  drove, 
erect  and  steady  in  her  seat,  guiding  her  horse  well,  and  keep- 


80  THE   RIVAL    SISTERS. 

ing  its  head  straight  to  the  river  bank,  and  hoping  every  instant 
to  hear  the  tramp  of  De  Yaux's  charger  overtaking  her,  and 
bringing  succor  —  alas  !  for  Annabel ! — the  first,  sound  that  dis 
tinctly  met  her  ears  was  a  wild  piercing  shriek — "  Ernest — 
great  God!  my  Ernest — help  me! — save  me!"  It  was  the 
voice  of  Marian,  the  voice  of  her  own  cherished  sister,  calling 
on  her  betrothed  —  and  he?  Even  in  that  dread  peril,  when 
life  was  on  a  cast,  her  woman  heart  prevailed  above  her  woman 
fear,  she  turned,  and  saw  the  steed  of  Marian  rushing  with  the 
bit  between  his  teeth  toward  the  dangerous  fence,  which  lay, 
however,  far  more  distant  than  the  river  to  which  her  own 
horse  was  in  terrible  proximity  !  and  he,  her  promised  husband, 
the  lord  of  her  soul,  he  for  whom  she  would  have  perished — 
oh  !  how  willingly  !  —  perished  with  but  the  one  regret  of  that 
reparation  —  he  had  overlooked  entirely,  or  heeded  not  at  least, 
her  peril  to  whom  his  faith  was  sworn ;  and  even  before  that 
wild  appealing  cry,  had  started  in  pursuit  —  and  was,  as  she 
looked  round,  in  the  act  of  whirling  Marian  from  her  saddle 
with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  controlled  his  own 
strong  war-horse. 

When  she  first  heard  that  cry,  her  spirit  sank  within  her — 
but  when  she  saw  herself  deserted,  when  the  drear  conscious 
ness  that  she  was  not  beloved,  broke  on  her,  it  seemed  as  if  an 
icebolt  had  pierced  her  heart  of  hearts  !  her  eyes  grew  dim ! 
there  was  a  sound  of  rushing  waters  in  her  ear  ! — not  the  sound 
of  the  rushing  river,  although  her  horse  was  straining  now  up 
the  last  ascent  that  banked  it ! — her  pulse  stood  still !  Had  An 
nabel  then  died,  the  bitterness  of  death  was  over.  Before,  how 
ever,  she  had  so  much  as  wavered  in  her  saddle,  much  less  lost 
rein  or  stirrup,  a  wild  plunge,  and  the  shock  which  ran  through 
every  nerve,  as  her  horse  leaped  into  the  brimful  river,  awoke 
her  for  the  moment  to  her  present  situation  :  unconsciously  she 
had  retained  her  seat  —  her  horse  was  swimming  boldly  —  a 


THE    RESCUE.  81 

loud  plunge  sounded  from  behind  !  another,  and  another !  and 
the  next  instant  her  steed's  head  was  seized  by  the  stalwart 
arm  of  a  young  falconer,  and  turned  toward  the  shore  she  had 
just  quitted  ;  her  brain  reeled  round,  and  she  again  was  sense 
less — thus  was  she  borne  to  land,  without  the  aid  or  interven 
tion  of  him,  who  should  have  been  the  first  to  venture  all,  to 
lose  all,  for  her  safety.  Alas  !  alas  !  for  Annabel ! 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WHEN  next  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  lay  on  her  own  bed, 
in  her  own  well-known  chamber,  and  the  old  nurse  and  the 
good  vicar's  wife  were  watching  over  her.  As  her  lids  rose, 
and  she  looked  about  her,  all  her  intelligence  returned  upon  the 
moment ;  and  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  all  that  had  already 
passed,  of  all  that  she  had  still  to  undergo.  "  Well,"  she  re 
plied,  to  the  eager  and  repeated  inquiries  after  the  state  of  her 
bodily  and  mental  sensations,  which  were  poured  out  from  the 
lips  of  her  assiduous  watchers  —  "oh!  I  feel  quite  well,  I  do 
assure  you  —  I  was  not  hurt  at  all — not  in  the  least — only  I 
was  so  foolish  as  to  faint  from  terror.  But  Marian,  how  is 
Marian  ?" 

"  Not  injured  in  the  least  —  but  very  anxious  about  you,  sweet 
Annabel,"  replied  Mistress  Somers,  "  so  much  so,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  force  her  from  the  chamber,  so  terrible  was  her  grief 
—  so  violent  her  terror  and  excitement.  Lord  de  Vaux  snatched 
her  from  her  horse,  and  saved  her  before  he  even  saw  your 
danger ;  he,  too,  is  in  a  fearful  state  of  mind  ;  he  has  been  at 
the  door  twenty  times,  I  believe,  within  the  hour  ;  hark,  that  is 
his  foot  now,  will  you  see  him,  dearest  ?"• 

A  quick  and  chilly  shudder  ran  through  the  whole  frame  of 


, 


82  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

the  lovely  girl,  and  a  faint  hue  glowed  once  again  in  her  pale 
cheek ;  but  mastering  her  feelings,  she  made  answer  in  her 
own  notes  of  sweet,  calm  music. 

"  Not  yet,  dear  Mistress  Somers,  not  yet ;  but  tell  him,  I  be 
seech  you,  that  I  am  better  —  well,  indeed  !  and  will  receive  his 
visit  by-and-by ;  and,  in  the  meantime,  my  good  friend,  I  must 
see  Marian  —  must  see  her  directly,  and  alone.  No  !  no  !  you 
must  not  hinder  me  of  my  desire,  you  know,"  she  \vent  on, 
with  a  faint  and  very  melancholy  smile,  "  you  know  of  old,  I 
am  a  wilful,  stubborn  girl  when  I  make  up  my  mind,  and  it  is 
quite  made  up  now,  my  good  friend !  so,  I  pray  you  let  me  see 
her;  I  am  quite  strong,  I  do  assure  you  ;  so  do,  I  beseech  you, 
go  and  console  my  Lord  de  Vaux,  and  let  nurse  bring  me  Ma 
rian  hither." 

So  firmly  did  she  speak,  and  so  resolved  was  the  expression 
of  her  soft  gentle  features,  that  they  no  longer  hesitated  to  com 
ply  with  her  request ;  and  both  retired  with  soft  steps  from  the 
chamber. 

Then  Annabel  half  uprose  from  the  pillows,  which  had 
propped  her,  and  clasped  her  hands  in  attitude  of  prayer,  and 
turned  her  beautiful  eyes  upward  —  her  lips  moved  visibly,  not 
in  irregular  impulsive  starts,  but  with  a  smooth  and  ordered  mo 
tion,  as  she  prayed  fervently,  indeed,  but  tranquilly,  for  strength 
to  do,  and  patience  to  endure,  and  grace  to  do  and  to  endure 
alike  with  Christian  love  and  Christian  fortitude. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  a  quick  uncertain  footstep, 
now  light  and  almost  tripping,  now  heavy  and  half  faltering, 
approached  the  threshold  ;  a  gentle  hand  raised  the  latch  once, 
and  again  let  it  fall,  as  if  the  comer  was  fluctuating  between  the 
wish  to  enter,  and  some  vague  apprehension  which  for  the  mo 
ment  conquered  the  desire. 

"  Is  it  you,  Marian  ?"  asked  the  lovely  sufferer  ;  "  oh,  come  in, 
come  in,  sister !"  and  she  did  come  in,  that  bright  lovely  suf- 


THE  SISTERS'  INTERVIEW.  83 

ferer,  her  naturally  high  complexion  almost  unnaturally  brilliant 
now,  from  the  intensity  of  her  hot  blushes  :  her  eyes  were 
downcast,  and  she  could  not  so  much  as  look  up  into  the  sad 
sweet  face  of  Annabel.  Her  whole  frame  trembled  visibly,  as 
she  approached  the  bed,  and  her  foot  faltered  very  much ;  yet 
she  drew  near,  and  sitting  down  beside  the  pillow,  took  Anna 
bel's  hand  tenderly  between  her  own,  and  raised  it  to  her  warm 
lips,  and  kissed  it  eagerly  and  often. 

Never,  for  a  moment's  space,  did  the  eyes  of  Annabel  swerve 
from  her  sister's  features,  from  the  moment  she  entered  the 
door  until  she  sat  down  by  her  side  ;  but  rested  on  them,  as  if 
through  them  they  would  peruse  the  secret  soul  with  a  soft, 
gentle  scrutiny,  that  savored  not  at  all  of  sternness  or  reproach. 
At  last,  as  if  she  was  fully  satisfied,  she  dropped  her  eyelids, 
and  for  a  little  space,  kept  them  close  shut ;  while  again  her 
lips  moved  silently,  and  then  pressing  her  sister's  hand  fondly, 
she  said  in  a  quiet  soothing  voice,  as  if  she  were  alluding  to  an 
admitted  faet,  rather  than  asking  a  question — 

"  So  you  have  met  him  before,  Marian  ?" 

A  violent  convulsion  shook  every  limb  of  her  whom  she  ad 
dressed,  and  the  blood  rushed  in  torrents  to  her  brow  ;  she 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  sister's  hand,  and  burst  into  a  parox 
ysm  of  hysterical  tears  and  sobbing,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Nay  !  nay  !  dear  sister,"  exclaimed  Annabel,  bending  down 
over  her,  and  kissing  her  neck,  which,  like  her  brow  and 
cheeks,  was  absolutely  crimson,  "  Nay !  nay !  sweet  Marian, 
weep  not  thus,  I  beseech  you,  there  is  no  wrong  done — none 
at  all — there  was  no  wrrong  in  your  seeing  him,  when  you  did 
so — it  was  at  York,  I  must  believe — nor  in  your  loving  him 
either,  when  you  did  so  ;  for  I  had  not  then  seen  him,  and  of 
course  could  not  love  him.  But  it  was  not  right,  sweetest  Ma 
rian,  to  let  me  be  in  ignorance  of  all  this  ;  only  think,  dearest, 
only  think  what  would  have  been  my  agony,  when  I  had  come 


84  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

to  know,  after  I  was  a  wife,  that  in  myself  becoming  happy,  I 
had  brought  misery  on  my  second  self,  my  own  sweet  sister ! 
nay,  do  not  answer  me  yet,  Marian ;  for  I  can  understand  it  all 
—  almost  all,  that  is  —  and  I  quite  appreciate  your  motives,  I 
am  sure  that  you  did  not  know  that  he  loved  you,  for  he  does 
love  you,  Marian  ! — but  fancied  that  he  loved  me  only,  and  so 
resolved  to  control  yourself,  and  crush  down  your  young  affec 
tions,  and  sacrifice  yourself  for  me  ;  thank  God !  oh !  thank 
God,  that  your  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  task,  for  had  it 
been  so,  we  had  been  wretched,  oh  !  most  wretched  !  But  you 
must  tell  me  all  about  it ;  for  there  is  much  I  can  not  compre 
hend —  when  did  you  see  him  first,  and  where  ?  Why  did  he 
never  so  much  as  hint  to  me,  that  he  had  known  you  ?  Why, 
when  I  wrote  you  word  that  he  was  here,  and  afterward,  that  I 
liked,  loved,  was  about  to  marry  him  —  why  did  you  never  write 
back  that  you  knew  him  ?  And  why,  above  all,  when  you 
came  and  found  him  here  —  here  in  your  mother's  house,  why 
did  you  meet  him  as  a  stranger  ?  I  know  it  will  be  painful  to 
you,  dear  one  ;  but  you  must  bear  the  pain  ;  for  it  is  necessary 
now,  that  there  shall  be  no  more  mistakes.  Be  sure  of  one 
thing,  dearest  Marian,  that  I  will  never  wed  him  ;  oh !  not  for 
worlds  !  I  could  not  sleep  one  night,  not  one  hour,  in  the 
thought  that  my  bliss  was  your  bane  ;  but  if  he  loves  you  as  he 
ought,  and  as  you  love  him,  sister,  for  I  can  read  your  soul,  he 
shall  be  yours  at  once  ;  and  I  shall  be  more  happy  so — more 
happy  tenfold,  than  pillowing  my  head  upon  a  heart  which 
beats  for  another — but  he  must  explain  all  this,  for  I  much  fear 
me,  he  has  dealt  very  basely  by  us  both — I  fear  me  much  he 
is  a  bold,  base  man !" 

"  No  !  no  !"  cried  Marian,  eagerly  raising  her  clear  eyes  to 
her  sister's,  full  of  ingenuous  truth  and  zealous  fire  —  "No! 
no!  he  is  all  good,  and  true,  and  noble  !  I,  it  is  I  only,  who 
have  for  once  been  false  and  wicked ;  not  altogether  wicked, 


THE    CONFESSION.  85 

Annabel,  perhaps  more  foolish  than  to  blame,  at  least  in  my  in 
tentions  ;  but  you  shall  hear  all ;  you  shall  hear  all,  Annabel, 
and  then  judge  for  yourself,"  and  then,  still  looking  her  sister 
quite  steadily  and  truthfully  in  the  face,  she  told  her  how  at  a 
ball  in  York,  she  had  met  the  young  nobleman,  who  had  seemed 
pleased  with  her  ;  had  danced  with  her  many  times,  and  visited 
her,  but  never  once  named  love,  nor  led  her  in  the  least  to 
fancy  he  esteemed  her,  beyond  a  chance  acquaintance  ;  "  but  I 
loved  him,  oh !  how  I  loved  him,  Annabel ;  almost  from  the  first 
time  I  saw  him,  and  I  feared  ever — ever  and  only — that  by 
my  bold,  frank  rashness,  he  might  discover  his  power,  and  be 
lieve  me  forward  and  unmaidenly ;  weeks  passed,  and  our  inti 
macy  ripened,  and  I  became  each  hour  more  fondly,  more  de 
votedly,  more  madly  —  for  it  was  madness  all!  —  enamored  of 
him. 

"  He  met  me  ever  as  a  friend,  no  more  !  The  time  came, 
when  he  was  to  leave  York,  and  as  he  took  leave  of  me  he 
told  me  that  he  had  just  received  despatches  from  his  father, 
directing  him  to  visit  mine ;  and  I,  shocked  by  the  coolness  of 
his  parting  tone,  and  seeing  indeed  he  had  no  love  for  me, 
scarcely  noting  what  he  said,  told  him  not  that  I  had  no  father, 
but  I  did  tell  him  that  I  had  one  sweet  sister,  and  suddenly  ex 
torted  from  him,  unawares,  a  promise  that  he  would  never  tell 
you  he  had  known  me.  My  manner,  I  am  sure,  was  strange 
and  wild  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  my  words  were  so  likewise,  for 
his  demeanor  altered  on  the  instant.  His  air,  which  had  been 
that  of  quiet  friendship,  became  cool,  chilling,  and  almost  dis 
dainful,  and  within  a  few  minutes  he  took  his  leave,  and  we 
never  met  again  till  yester  even. 

"  You  will,  I  doubt  not,  ask  me  wherefore  I  did  all  this  !  I 
was  mad — mad  with  love  and  disappointment.  And  the  very 
instant  he  said  that  he  was  coming  hither,  I  knew  as  certainly 
that  he  would  love  you  and  you  him,  Annabel,  as  though  it  had 

8 


86  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

been  palpably  revealed  to  me.  I  could  not  write  of  him  to  you 
—  I  could  not,  Annabel,  and  when  your  letters  came,  and  we 
learned  that  he  was  here,  I  confessed  all  this  to  our  aunt ;  and 
though  she  blamed  me  much,  for  wild  and  thoughtless  folly,  she 
thought  it  best  to  keep  the  matter  secret.  This  is  the  whole 
truth,  Annabel  —  the  whole  truth!  I  fancied  that  the  absence 
— the  knowledge  that  I  should  see  him  next  my  sister's  hus 
band  —  the  stern  resolve  with  which  I  bound  my  soul  —  had  made 
me  strong  enough  to  bear  his  presence  :  I  tried  it,  and  I  found 
myself,  how  weak — this  is  all,  Annabel ;  can  you  forgive  me, 
sister  ?" 

"  Sweet,  innocent  Marian,"  exclaimed  the  elder  sister  through 
her  tears,  for  she  had  wept  constantly  through  the  whole  sad 
narration,  "there  is  not  anything  for  me  to  forgive  —  you  have 
wronged  yourself  only,  my  sister  !  But  yet — but  yet !  —  I  can 
not  understand  it — he  must  have  seen,  no  man  could  fail  to  see 
that  one,  so  frank  and  artless  as  you  are,  Marian,  was  in  love 
with  him.  He  must,  if  not  before,  have  known  it  certainly, 
when  you  extorted  from  him,  as  you  call  it,  that  strange  prom 
ise.  Besides,  he  loves  you,  Marian ;  he  loves  you ;  then 
wherefore,  in  God's  name  !  did  he  woo  me  —  for  woo  he  did, 
and  fervently,  and  long,  before  he  won  me  to  confession  ?  oh  ! 
he  is  base  !  base,  base,  and  bad  at  heart,  my  sister  !  —  answer 
me  nothing,  dear  one,  for  I  will  prove  him  very  shortly  —  send 
Margaret  hither  to  array  me.  I  will  go  down  and  speak  with 
him  forthwith.  If  he  be  honest,  Marian,  he  is  yours  —  and 
think  not  that  I  sacrifice  myself,  when  I  say  this,  for  all  the 
love  I  ever  felt  for  him  has  vanished  utterly  away — if  he  is 
honest,  he  is  yours.  But  be  not  over-confident,  dear  child,  for 
I  believe  he  is  not ;  and  if  not,  why  then,  sweet  Marian,  can 
we  not  comfort  one  another,  and  live  together  as  we  used,  dear, 
innocent,  united,  happy  sisters  ?  Do  not  reply  now,  Marian, 
your  heart  is  too  full ;  haste  and  do  as  I  tell  you  ;  before  supper- 


THE    SUMMONS.  87 

time  to-night  all  shall  be  ended — whether  for  good  or  for  evil, 
He  only  knows,  to  whom  the  secrets  of  the  heart  are  visible, 
even  as  the  features  of  the  face.  Farewell,  be  of  good  cheer, 
und  yet  not  over-cheerful." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

WITHIN  an  hour  after  that  most  momentous  conversation, 
Annabel  sat  beside  the  window,  in  that  pleasant  summer-parlor, 
looking  out  on  the  fair  prospect  of  mead  and  dale  and  river, 
with  its  back-ground  —  of  purple  mountains  the  very  window 
from  which  she  had  first  looked  upon  De  Vaux ! 

Perhaps  a  secret  instinct  had  taught  her  to  select  that  spot, 
now  that  she  was  about  to  renounce  him  for  ever  ;  but  if  it  were 
so,  it  was  one  of  those  indefinable  impulsive  instincts  of  which 
we  are  unconscious,  even  while  they  prompt  our  actions. 

De  Vaux  was  summoned  to  her  presence,  and  Annabel 
awaited  him — arbiter  of  her  own  and  her  sister's  destinies  ! 

•'  Ernest,"  she  said,  as  he  entered,  cutting  across  his  eager 
and  impetuous  inquiries,  "  Ernest  de  Vaux,  I  have  learned  to 
day  a  secret" — she  spoke  with  perfect  ease,  and  without  a 
symptom  of  irritation,  or  anxiety,  or  sorrow,  either  in  her  voice 
or  manner ;  nor  was  she  cold,  or  dignified,  or  haughty.  Her 
demeanor  was  not,  indeed,  that  of  a  fond  maid  toward  her  ac 
cepted  suitor ;  nor  had  it  the  flutter  which  marks  the  conscious 
ness  of  unacknowledged  love  ;  a  sister's  to  a  dear  brother's 
would  have  resembled  it  more  nearly  than,  perhaps,  anything 
to  which  it  could  be  compared,  yet  was  not  this  altogether  sim 
ilar.  He  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  smile,  and  asked  her  at 
once  : — 

"  What  secret,  dearest  Annabel  ?" 


88  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"  A  secret,  Ernest,"  she  replied,  ".which  I  can  not  but  fancy 
you  must  have  learned  before,  but  which  you  certainly  have 
learned,  as  well  as  I,  to-day.  My  sister  loves  you,  Ernest." 

The  young  man's  face  was  crimson  on  the  instant,  and  he 
would  have  made  some  reply,  but  his  voice  failed  him,  and, 
after  a  moment  of  confused  stuttering,  he  stood  before  her  in 
embarrassed  silence  ;  but  she  went  on  at  once,  not  noticing  ap 
parently,  his  consternation. 

"  If  you  did  know  this,  as  I  fear  must  be  the  case,  long,  long 
ago  !  most  basely  have  you  acted,  and  most  cruelly  to  both  of 
us  ;  for  never  !  never  !  even  if  it  had  been  a  rash,  unsought,  and 
unjustifiable  passion  on  her  part,  would  I  have  wedded,  know 
ingly,  the  man  who  held  my  sister's  heart-strings  !" 

"  It  was,"  he  answered,  instantly,  "  it  was  a  rash,  unsought, 
and  unjustifiable  passion  on  her  part,  believe  me,  oh !  believe 
me,  Annabel !  that  is — that  is,"  he  continued,  reddening  again 
at  feeling  himself  self- convicted,  "that  is,  if  she  felt  any  pas 
sion." 

"  Then  you  did  know  it — then  you  did  know  it,"  she  in 
terrupted  him,  without  paying  any  regard  to  his  attempt  at  self- 
correction,  "then  you  did  know  it  from  the  very  first — oh! 
man,  man  !  oh  !  false  heart  of  man  —  oh  !  false  tongue  that  can 
speak  thus  of  the  lady  whom  he  loves  !  yes,  loves  !"  she  added, 
in  a  clear,  high  voice,  as  thrilling  as  the  alarm-blast  of  a  silver 
trumpet ;  "  yes,  loves,  Ernest  de  Vaux,  with  his  whole  heart 
and  spirit !  Never  think  to  deny  it !  Did  I  not  see  you,  when 
you  rushed  to  save  her  from  lesser  peril,  when  you  left  me,  as 
you  must  have  thought,  to  perish  ?  Did  I  not  see  love  written 
as  clearly  as  words  in  a  book,  on  every  feature  of  your  face, 
even  as  I  heard  love  crying  out  aloud  in  every  accent  of  her 
voice  ?" 

"  What !  jealous,  Annabel  ?  the  calm  and  self-controlling  An 
nabel,  can  she  be  jealous,  of  her  own  sister,  too  ?" 


THE    RENUNCIATION.  8' 

"  Not  jealous,  sir,"  she  answered,  now  most  contemptuously, 
"  not  jealous,  in  the  least,  I  do  assure  you !  For  though,  most 
surely,  love  can  exist  without  one  touch  of  jealousy,  as  surely 
can  not  jealousy  exist  where  there  is  neither  love,  nor  admira 
tion,  nor  esteem,  nor  so  much  as  respect  existing." 

"  How  !  do  I  hear  you  aright  ?"  he  asked  somewhat  sharply, 
"  do  I  understand  you  aright  ?  What  have  become,  then,  of 
your  vows  and  protestations,  your  protestations  of  yester-even  ?" 

"  You  do  hear  me,  you  do  understand  me,"  she  replied,  "  en 
tirely  right,  entirely !  In  my  heart — for  I  have  searched  it 
very  deeply — in  my  heart  there  is  not  now  one  feeling  of  love, 
or  admiration,  or  esteem,  much  less  of  respect  for  you  ;  alas  ! 
that  I  should  say  so  ;  alas  !  for  me  and  you  ;  alas  !  for  one,  more 
to  be  pitied  twentyfold  than  the  other !" 

"  Annabel  Hawkwood,  you  have  never  loved  me." 

"  Ernest  de  Vaux,  you  never  have  known,  never  will  know,  be 
cause  you  are  incapable  of  knowing  the  depth,  the  singleness,  the 
honesty,  of  a  true  woman's  love  !  So  deeply  did  I  love  you, 
that  I  have  come  down  hither,  seeing  that  long  before  you  knew 
me,  you  had  won  Marian's  heart  —  seeing  that  you  loved  her,  as 
she  loves  you,  most  ardently,  and  hoping  that  you  had  not  dis 
covered  her  affection,  nor  suspected  your  own  feelings  until 
to-day — I  came  down  hither,  I  say,  with  that  knowledge,  in  that 
hope.  And  had  I  found  that  you  had  erred  no  further  than  in 
trivial  fickleness,  she  loving  you  all  the  while  beyond  all  things 
on  earth,  I  purposed  to  resign  your  hand  to  her,  thus  making 
both  of  you  happy,  and  trusting  for  my  own  consolation  to  con 
sciousness  of  right,  and  to  the  love  of  HIM  who,  all  praise  be 
to  him  therefor,  has  so  constituted  the  spirit  of  Annabel  Hawk- 
wood,  that  when  she  can  not  honor,  she  can  not  afterward  for 
ever  feel  either  love  or  friendship.  You  are  weighed,  Ernest 
de  Yaux,  weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting !  I  leave 
you  now,  sir,  to  prepare  my  sister  to  bear  the  blow  your  base- 

8* 


90  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

ness  has  inflicted.  Our  marriage  is  broken  off  at  once,  now 
and  for  ever!  Lay  all  the  blame  on  me  —  on  me!  if  it  so 
please  you  ;  but  not  one  word  against  my  own  or  my  sister's 
honor !  My  aunt  I  shall  inform  instantly,  that,  for  sufficient 
reasons,  our  promised  union  will  not  take  place  at  all ;  the  rea 
sons  I  shall  lock  up  in  my  own  bosom.  You  may  remain  here, 
you  must  do  so,  this  one  night ;  to-morrow  morning  we  will  bid 
you  adieu  for  ever  !" 

"  Be  it  so,"  he  replied.  "  Be  it  so,  lady  ;  the  fickleness  I 
can  forgive,  but  not  the  scorn !  I  will  go  now,  and  order  that 
the  regiment  march  hence  forthwith.  What  more  recruits 
there  be,  can  follow  at  their  leisure,  and  I  will  overtake  the 
troops  before  noon,  on  the  march,to-morrow ;"  and  with  the  words 
he  left  the  room,  apparently  as  unconcerned  as  if  he  had  not  left 
a  breaking  heart  behind  him,  and  as  if  all  the  agonies  of  hell 
had  not  been  burning  within  his  own. 

And  was  it  true  that  Annabel  no  longer  loved  him  ?  True  ! 
oh,  believe  it  not !  where  woman  once  has  fixed  her  soul's  af 
fections,  there  they  will  dwell  for  ever  ;  principle  may  compel 
her  to  suppress  them ;  prudence  may  force  her  to  conceal 
them  ;  the  fiery  sense  of  instantaneous  wrong  may  seem  to 
quench  them  for  a  moment ;  the  bitterness  of  jealousy  may  turn 
them  into  gall ;  but,  like  that  Turkish  perfume,  where  love  has 
once  existed,  it  must  exist  for  ever,  so  long  as  one  fragment 
of  the  earthly  vessel  which  contained  it  survives  the  wreck  of 
time  and  ruin. 

She  believed  that  she  loved  him  not ;  but  she  knew  not  her 
self ;  what  woman  ever  did — what  man  —  when  the  spring-tide 
of  passion  was  upon  them  ?  And  she,  too,  left  the  parlor,  and 
within  a  few  minutes,  Marian  had  heard  her  fate,  and  after 
many  a  tear,  and  many  a  passionate  exclamation,  she,  too,  ap 
parently,  was  satisfied  of  Ernest's  worthlessness  ;  oh  !  misap 
plied  and  heartless  term !  She  satisfied  ?  satisfied  by  the 


THE    PARTING.  91 

knowledge  that  her  heart's  idol  was  an  unclean  thing,  an  evil 
spirit,  a  false  God  !  she  satisfied  ?  oh  !  Heaven  ! 

Around  the  hospitable  board  once  more  —  once  more  they 
were  assembled  ;  but  oh  !,  how  sadly  altered  ;  the  fiat  had  been 
distinctly,  audibly  pronounced ;  and  all  assembled  there  had 
heard  it,  though  none,  except  the  sisters  and  De  Vaux,  knew 
of  the  cause  ;  none  probably,  but  they,  suspected  it.  Well 
was  it  that  there  were  no  young  men  —  no  brothers  with  high 
hearts  and  strong  hands  to  maintain  or  question  ?  Well  was  it, 
that  the  only  relatives  of  those  much-injured  maidens,  the  only 
friends,  were  superannuated  men  of  peace — the  ministers  of 
pardon,  not  of  vengeance  —  and  weak,  old,  helpless  women! 
There  had  been  bloodshed  else  —  and,  as  it  was,  among  the 
serving-men,  there  were  dark  brows,  and  writhing  lips,  and 
hands  alert  to  grasp  the  hilt  at  a  word  spoken  ;  had  they  but 
been  of  rank  one  grade  higher — had  they  dared  even  as  they 
were  —  there  had  been  bloodshed  !  Cold,  cold  and  cheerless 
was  the  conversation  ;  formal  and  dignified  civilities,  in  place 
of  gay,  familiar  mirth  ;  forced  smiles  for  hearty  laughter  ;  pale 
looks  and  dim  eyes,  for  the  glad  blushes  of  the  promised  bride 
— for  the  bright  sparkles  of  her  eye  ! 

The  evening  passed,  the  hour  of  parting  came  ;  and  it  was 
colder  yet  and  sadder.  Ernest  de  Vaux,  calm  and  inscrutable, 
and  seemingly  unmoved,  kissed  the  hands  of  his  lovely  host 
esses,  and  uttered  his  adieu  and  thanks  for  all  their  kindness,  and 
hopes  for  their  prosperity  and  welfare  ;  while  the  old  clergy 
men  looked  on  with  dark  and  angry  brows,  and  their  helpmates 
with  difficulty  could  refrain  from  loud  and  passionate  invective. 
His  lip  had  a  curl  upon  it  —  a  painful  curl,  half  sneer,  as  he 
bowed  to  the  rest,  and  left  the  parlor ;  but  none  observed  that 
as  he  did  so,  he  spoke  three  or  four  words,  in  a  low  whisper, 
so  low  that  it  reached  Marian's  ear  alone,  of  all  that  stood 
around  him,  yet  of  such  import,  that  her  color  came  and  went 


92  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

ten  times  within  the  minute,  and  that  she  shook  from  head  to 
foot,  and  quivered  like  an  aspen. 

For  two  hours  longer,  the  sisters  sat  together  in  Annabel's 
bedchamber,  and  wept  in  one  another's  arms,  and  comforted 
each  other's  sorrows,  and  little  dreamed  that  they  should  meet 
no  more  forlyears — perchance  for  ever. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THREE  hours  had  elapsed  since  all  the  inhabitants  of  Ingle- 
borough  hall  had  retired  to  their  own  chambers,  and  one,  at 
least  since  Marian  had  retired  from  her  sister's  dressing-room 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  During  that  weary  hour,  she  had  lain 
tossing  to  and  fro,  feverish  with  anxiety  and  expectation,  irres 
olute,  anxious,  and  heartsick. 

The  last  words  which  Ernest  de  Vaux  had  whispered  in  her 
ear,  unheard  by  any  others,  contained  a  fervent  entreaty,  per 
haps —  I  should  say,  rather,  a  command — that  she  should  meet 
him  after  all  the  house  had  gone  to  rest,  in  the  garden.  And 
strange  it  was,  that  despite  all  that  had  passed,  despite  all  her 
own  good  resolutions,  all  the  resistance  of  her  native  modesty, 
all  her  conviction  —  for  she  was  almost  convinced  that  he  was 
base  and  bad — she  yet  lacked  firmness  to  set  the  tempter  at 
defiance. 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  but  one  which  we  nevertheless  encoun 
ter  more  frequently  than  would  be  supposed,  that  it  is  women 
of  the  most  bold,  and  free,  and  fearless  characters,  who,  so  long 
as  their  fancies  are  untouched,  appear  the  wildest  and  the  most 
untameable,  that  are  subdued  and  engrossed  the  most  complete 
ly,  when  they  once  become  thoroughly  enamored,  when  they 
once  meet  with  an  overmastering  spirit. 


IRRESOLUTION.  93 

And  so  it  was  with  Marian  Hawkwood ;  high-spirited,  and 
almost  daring,  while  her  heart  was  free,  no  sooner  had  she 
fallen  desperately  in  love,  as  she  did,  with  De  Vaux,  than  she 
became,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  most  thoroughly  sub 
jugated  and  tamed  of  beings.  Her  whole  nature,  toward  him 
at  least,  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  change.  Her  very  intel 
lect  appeared  to  have  lost  much  of  its  brilliancy,  of  its  rapid 
and  clear  perceptions,  as  soon  as  he  was  to  be  judged. 

To  us,  such  things  appear  very  strange,  although  we  see 
them  happening  before  our  eyes  almost  daily.  To  us,  they  are 
as  inexplicable  as  the  one  half  of  our  motives  and  our  actions 
must  appear  incomprehensible  to  the  other  sex.  But  all  these 
diversities,  all  these  inexplicable  contradictions  as  they  seem, 
in  the  nature  and  characteristics  of  our  race,  have  been  crea 
ted,  and  unquestionably  for  wise  ends,  by  Him  whose  every 
deed  is  all-wise,  whose  every  purpose  perfect.  And  it  may 
well  be  that  it  is  these  very  differences,  these  very  extremities 
of  thought  and  action,  that  render  the  two  sexes  so  eminently 
attractive  to  one  another. 

To  the  mind  of  a  man  it  naturally  would  appear  impossible, 
that  after  what  had  passed,  Marian  should  still  entertain  a  be 
lief,  a  hope  even,  that  De  Vaux  could  explain  honorably  his 
most  dishonorable  conduct ;  dishonorable,  if  possible,  yet  more 
toward  herself  than  toward  Annabel.  It  would  seem  that  when 
he  presumed  to  whisper  in  her  ear  that  prayer  for  a  clandestine 
interview,  she  would  have  recognised  and  spurned  him  for  the 
villain  that  he  was.  But  it  was  not  so  ;  she  still  hoped,  if  she 
did  not  believe,  and  if  she  made  him  no  answer  at  the  time,  it 
was  that  her  maiden  purity  of  soul  revolted  from  the  idea  of 
a  rendezvous  with  any  man  at  that  untimely  hour,  and  in  a  place 
so  sequestered. 

At  first,  indeed,  she  resolved  that  she  would  not  meet  him, 
and  even  made  up  her  mind  to  confide  his  request  to  Annabel, 


91  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

as  a  fresh  proof  of  his  atrocious  baseness.  But  gradually 
worse  thoughts  and  more  fatal  wishes  began  to  creep  in,  and 
she  suffered  the  long  conversation  between  herself  and  Anna 
bel  to  come  to  a  termination,  without  touching  on  the  circum 
stance  at  all.  At  length  she  left  her  sister's  chamber,  and  with 
drew  to  her  own,  still  without  any  fixed  intention  of  granting 
his  request,  but  certainly  without  any  fixed  determination  not 
to  do  so. 

After  she  had  undressed  herself,  however,  and  that  she  did 
so  was  a  proof  that  up  to  this  time  her  better  principles  had  the 
upper  hand,  she  knelt  down  by  her  bedside,  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  and  seemed,  at  least,  to  pray.  It  was,  however,  but 
too  evident  that  her  mind  was  in  no  state  for  prayer.  She 
burst  into  a  fit  of  violent  and  convulsive  weeping,  mixed  with 
sobs  almost  hysterical,  while  strong  shudderings  ran  through 
her  whole  fair  frame. 

"  No  !"  she  said,  starting  up  after  a  while,  and  calming  her 
self  by  a  powerful  effort  of  the  will,  "  no,  no,  I  can  not  pray — 
it  is  mockery — a  shameful  mockery  to  bend  my  knees  and 
move  my  lips  in  prayer  before  the  throne  of  God,  when  no 
thought  of  him  remains  fixed  in  my  mind ;  when  by  no  effort 
can  I  concentrate  my  wandering  senses  upon  his  goodness  and 
mercy ;  when  by  no  effort  can  I  banish  from  my  soul  the  rec 
ollection,  the  wild  yearning  for  the  creature  usurping  thus  the 
place  of  the  Creator  !  Oh,  my  God  !"  she  continued,  even  more 
wildly  than  before  ;  "  my  God,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I 
do  ?  what  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  thus  terribly  afflicted  ? 
To  bed,  to  bed !"  she  added,  extinguishing  her  taper,  as  she 
spoke,  "  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep  !  never  to  sleep  again  in  peace 
or  dreamless.  Would  to  God  that  this  bed  were  the  grave, 
the  cold  unconscious  grave  !" 

And  with  the  words,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and 
closed  her  eyelids,  saying  to  herself:  "  No,  no,  it  were  unmaid- 


CONFLICTING    THOUGHTS.  95 

enly,  I  will  not  think  of  it — no,  no !"  But  she  did  think  of 
it — nay,  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  ;  and  ere  long  she  un 
closed  her  eyes,  and  looked  about  her  chamber  with  a  wild, 
eager  glance,  as  if  she  were  in  search  of  something  which  she 
expected  to  see  there,  but  saw  not.  Again  she  closed  them, 
and  cast  herself  back  impatiently  upon  the  bed,  and  lay  quiet 
for  a  little  while  ;  but  it  was  only  by  a  great  effort  that  she 
forced  herself  to  do  so,  and  before  long,  she  started  up  crying, 
"  I  shall  go  mad — I  shall  go  mad — I  hardly  know  if  I  am  not 
mad  already.  It  is  all  fire  here  !"  and  she  clasped  her  small 
white  hands  over  her  brow,  "  all  raging  and  consuming  fire  ! 
Air  !  air  !  I  must  have  air  —  I  am  choking,  stifling  !  Can  it  be 
that  the  room  is  so  suffocatingly  hot  1  or  is  it  in  my  own  heart  ?" 

The  comfortable,  roomy  chamber  in  which  she  lay,  could  not 
have  been  more  pleasantly  attempered  to  the  weather  and  the 
season,  had  it  been  regulated  by  the  thermometer.  It  was  a 
large  and  airy  chamber,  situated  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  so 
that  its  two  large  latticed  casements  looked  out  in  different  di 
rections,  one  over  the  little  garden  amphitheatre  so  often  no 
ticed,  the  other  down  the  broad  valley  to  the  southward.  The 
moon,  which  now  was  nearly  full,  streamed  in  at  the  eastern 
window,  and  would  have  rendered  the  room  nearly  as  bright 
as  day,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  leafy  head  of  one  of  the 
huge  sycamores  that  interrupted  the  soft  beams  partially ;  and 
swaying  backward  and  forward  in  the  west  wind,  which  was 
fitful  and  uncertain,  now  blowing  in  long  gusts,  now  lulling  al 
together,  cast  huge  and  wavering  shadows  over  the  floor  and 
walls  —  so  that  they  were  at  one  time  all  bathed  in  lustrous 
light,  and  the  next  moment  steeped  in  misty  shadows. 

There  was  something  in  this  wavering  effect  of  light  and 
shade,  that  at  first  caught  the  eye  merely,  and  attracted  the 
physical  attention,  if  it  is  allowed  so  to  speak,  and  afterward 
began  to  produce  an  impression  on  her  mind.  It  seemed  to 


96  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

her  as  if  the  vagueness  and  incertitude  of  these  fleeting  shades 
were  in  some  sort  assimilated  to  the  wild  and  whirling  thoughts 
which  were  chasing  one  another  across  the  horizon  of  her  own 
mind.  Then  she  compared  them  to  the  changes  and  chances 
of  mortal  life,  and  thence,  as  we  are  all  so  prone  to  do,  when 
in  trouble  and  affliction,  she  began  to  charge  all  her  own  mis 
fortunes,  and  many  of  her  own  faults,  to  the  account  of  fortune. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  irresistible  destiny  which  had  com 
pelled  Ernest  to  leave  her  at  York,  it  could  not  have  been,  she 
thought,  that  seeking  her  out  so  eagerly  as  he  did  on  all  occa 
sions,  and  admiring  her  personal  charms  so  evidently,  Ernest 
should  not  have  ended  by  loving  and  wooing  her  instead  of  her 
passionless  and  gentle  sister. 

And  from  this  train  of  thought  she  fell  into  another  yet  more 
perilous.  How,  she  now  asked  herself,  had  it  come  to  pass 
that  he  had  wooed  Annabel  at  all — how,  when  he  loved  her 
self,  should  he  have  sought  her  sister's  love  —  or  how,  loving 
her  sister,  should  he  have  given  way,  so  clearly  and  openly  as 
he  had  done  to-day,  to  a  passion  for  herself. 

His  conduct  did  seem,  in  truth,  incomprehensible — perhaps 
to  himself,  even,  it  might  have  been  so  —  for,  I  believe  that,  far 
oftener  than  is  generally  believed,  men,  if  they  were  to  subject 
themselves  to  strict  self-examination,  would  be  at  a  loss  to  ac 
count  to  themselves  for  the  motives  whence  arise  very  many  of 
their  actions. 

This  very  strangeness  of  Ernest  de  Vaux's  demeanor — this 
very  impossibility  of  accounting  for  his  conduct  on  any  reason 
able  hypothesis,  had  the  worst  possible  effect  for  her  happiness, 
on  the  mind  of  Marian.  If  she  was  to  consider  this  whole 
course  of  conduct  infamous  and  base,  the  baseness  seemed  too 
gratuitous,  the  infamy  too  void  of  motive,  to  be  credited.  And 
hence  she  was  led  to  fancy  that  there  must  be  some  unseen 
and  secret  hand  which  had  given  motion  to  the  whole  machin- 


DELUSIVE    REASONING.  97 

ery,  and  which,  could  it  but  be  discovered,  would  probably 
afford  a  ready  clue  and  complete  solution  to  all  that  now  ap 
peared  dark  and  enigmatical  in  her  lover's  words  and  actions. 

For  whatever  we  find  glaringly  inconsistent,  or  foolishly  mis- 
contrived  in  the  conduct  of  men,  we  are  wont,  in  our  blindness 
and  conceitedness  of  heart,  to  consider  enigmatical  and  ob 
scure.  As  if,  forsooth,  men  were  anything  but  masses  of  in 
consistencies  the  most  glaring  and  self-evident. 

Having  soon  brought  herself  to  the  conclusion  that,  because 
she  could  not  understand  the  conduct  of  Ernest,  there  must  ne 
cessarily  be  something  in  it  to  be  understood,  she  now  went  to 
work  to  find  out  what  this  something  could  be.  The  original 
bane  of  woman,  curiosity,  was  busy  in  her  secret  soul,  and  soon 
there  came  together  two  sister-friends  to  aid  her  in  the  invid 
ious  onslaught  she  was  seeking  on  the  strongholds  of  principle 
and  virtue — fit  partners  in  the  foul  alliance,  vain  self-esteem 
and  jealousy. 

First  she  commenced  asking  herself  how  it  could  have  been 
that  he  should  have  failed  to  love  her,  and  yet  have  fallen  in 
love  instantly  with  Annabel  —  then  she  half  doubted  whether 
he  had,  indeed,  ever  loved  Annabel  at  all — that  he  did  so  no 
longer  was  quite  evident  —  and  in  the  end  she  convinced  her-* 
self,  that  she  had  been  the  object  of  his  love  from  the  begin 
ning,  that  by  some  misapprehension  of  her  manner  he  had  been 
led  to  believe  her  indifferent  to  himself,  and  that  in  pique  he 
had  devoted  himself  to  her  sister. 

This  train  once  kindled  in  her  mind,  the  flame  ran  rapidly 
from  point  to  point,  and  she  was  very  soon  so  completely  self- 
deluded,  that  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  conviction  that  she 
was  herself  the  only  true  love  of  De  Vaux,  that  his  conduct  had 
been  natural,  and,  if  very  blameable,  still  honorable,  and  de 
serving  some  compassion,  from  the  fact  that  her  own  charms 
had  been  the  cause  of  all  the  mischief.  Still  she  was  very  far 

9 


98  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

from  having  made  up  her  mind  to  meet  him,  though  she  had 
already  admitted  to  herself  that  it  was  cruel  to  condemn  him 
without  giving  him  an  opportunity  of  defending  himself,  and  one 
step  leading  to  another,  she  soon  began  to  consider  seriously 
the  possibility  of  doing  that,  which  but  an  hour  before  she  could 
not  have  contemplated  without  terror  and  disgust. 

Ere  long  it  was  fear  only  that  dissuaded  her  from  going  — 
the  fear  of  discovery,  and  that  was  but  a  weak  opponent  to 
strong  and  passionate  love  —  for  she  did  love  Ernest  de  Vaux 
strongly  and  passionately  —  particularly  when  that  love  was 
aided  and  abetted  by  the  other  kindred  spirits  of  evil,  which  I 
have  enumerated,  and  which  for  ever  lie  hid  in  the  secret  re 
cesses  of  the  human  heart  waiting  the  opportunity  to  arise  and 
do  battle,  when  the  better  principles  are  weakened  by  tempta 
tions,  and  the  tone  of  the  mind  soured  by  vexation,  and  ren 
dered  angry  by  disappointment. 

Then  she  arose  at  length,  half-timidly  still,  and  half-reluc- 
tantly.  Nor  did  she  as  yet  admit  to  herself  what  was  her  in 
tention  as  she  dressed  herself  hastily,  and  stole,  with  a  beating 
heart  and  noiseless  step,  to  the  door  of  her  sister's  chamber. 
Opening  it  with  a  careful  hand,  she  entered,  and  stole  silently 
to  the  bedside.  Pale  as  a  lily,  calm  and  tranquil  lay  sweet 
Annabel,  buried  in  deep,  and  as  she  at  first  thought,  dreamless 
sleep.  One  fair  slight  hand  was  pressed  upon  her  bosom,  the 
other  arm  was  folded  under  the  head  of  the  lovely  sleeper. 
The  broad  light  of  the  moonbeams  fell  in  a  flood  of  pure  silvery 
radiance  over  the  lovely  picture  —  and  surely  never  lovelier 
was  devised  —  of  virgin  innocence,  and  purity  of  meekness. 

For  many  moments  the  perturbed  and  anxious  Marian  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  couch  gazing  upon  the  face  of  that  once  be 
loved  sister  —  alas  !  that  I  must  say  once  beloved  —  for  already 
had  jealousy,  and  distrust,  and  envy,  come  over  the  heart  of  the 
no  less  lovely  watcher — and  she  felt,  as  she  stood  there,  that 


THE    SLEEP    OF    INNOCENCE.  99 

she  no  longer  loved  that  sister,  as  she  used  to  love,  or  as  she 
was  still  herself  beloved.  No  contrast  can  be  imagined  more 
striking  than  that  between  the  sleeper,  so  still,  so  tranquil,  so 
serene — yet  so  inanimately  pale  and  spiritual  in  her  aspect — 
and  the  flashed  cheeks,  and  flashing  eyes,  and  frame  quivering 
with  wild  excitement  of  the  half-trembling,  half-guilty  girl  who 
stood  beside  her.  The  deep,  regular,  calm  breathing  of  the 
sleeper,  the  short,  quick,  panting  inspirations  of  the  excited 
watcher  —  the  absolute  unconsciousness  of  the  one,  and  the  ter 
rible  and  over- wrought  feelings  of  the  other  —  the  innocence, 
the  confidence,  the  trust  in  God,  of  Annabel  —  the  agonies,  the 
wishes,  and  the  doubts  of  Marian. 

And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  very  peacefulness,  the  very 
absence  of  all  semblance  of  earthly  feeling  or  earthly  passion 
in  her  slumbering  sister,  the  infantile  repose  which  brooded 
over  the  candid  face,  augmented  Marian's  feelings  of  nascent 
dislike  or  disaffection.  An  angry  sense  of  vexation  that  Anna 
bel  should  be  able  to  sleep  sound  and  quiet,  even  amid  her 
griefs,  while  she  could  neither  rest  in  mind  or  body.  Then  she 
began  to  justify  herself  in  her  own  eyes,  by  suffering  her  mind 
to  dwell  on  the  idea  that  Annabel  could  not  be  wronged  by  her, 
should  she  consent  to  wed  Ernest,  for  that  her  very  calmness 
and  tranquillity  must  needs  betoken  the  absence  of  true  passion. 

While  she  was  wondering  thus  a  slight  sound  from  the  gar 
den  under  the  windows  caught  her  ear,  and  she  started  wildly, 
her  heart  bounding  as  if  it  would  have  burst  out  of  her  tortured 
bosom.  A  shadow  steals  not  across  the  moon-lighted  landscape 
more  noiselessly  than  did  Marian  Hawkwood  glide  over  the 
carpet  to  the  lattice,  and  gaze  down  into  the  quiet  shrubbery. 
Alas!  for  Marian — thereon  the  gravel-walk,  half  hidden  by  the 
shadow  of  the  giant  sycamores,  stood  the  graceful  and  courtly 
figure  of  the  tempter.  His  eyes  were  directed  upward  to  the 
casement  at  which  she  was  standing — they  met  hers  —  and  on 


100  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

the  instant,  deeply  versed  in  all  the  hypocrisies  of  gallantry, 
Ernest  de  Vaux  knelt  down,  and  clasped  his  hands  as  if  he 
were  in  prayer,  and  she  might  see  his  lips  tremble  in  the  moon 
light. 

She  turned  —  she  retrod  the  chamber-floor  in  silence  —  she 
stood  again  beside  her  sister's  bed — but  this  time  it  was  to  see 
only  whether  that  sister's  eyes  were  sealed  in  oblivious  slum 
ber.  As  she  paused,  she  had  an  opportunity  of  judging  whether 
the  dreams  of  that  pale  sleeper  were  indeed  so  blissful — wheth 
er  the1  heart  of  Annabel  was  so  serene  and  passionless.  The 
moonbeams  fell  full  on  her  face,  as  I  have  said,  and  Marian  saw 
two  heavy  tears  glide  from  her  deeply-curtained  lids,  arid  slide 
down  her  transparent  cheeks  ;  and  while  she  gazed  upon  her 
she  stirred,  and  stretched  out  both  her  arms,  as  if  to  clasp  some 
one,  and  murmured  in  her  sleep  the  name  —  of  Marian. 

Had  that  small, simple  thing  occurred  before  the  girl  looked 
out  and  saw  Ernest,  all  might  have  yet  been  well  —  but  it  was 
all  too  late — passion  was  burning  in  her  every  vein,  and  bound 
ing  in  her  every  pulse  —  it  was  too  late  !  —  she  turned  and  left 
the  chamber. 

Cautiously  she  stole  to  the  staircase,  groping  her  way  in  the 
glimmering  twilight  through  the  long  oaken  corridor — as  she 
reached  the  stairhead  she  again,  paused,  listened,  and  trembled 
— did  she  hesitate  ?  Upon  that  landing-place  there  stood  two 
complete  panoplies  of  steel,  worn  by  some  loyal  Hawkwood 
of  old  time  in  the  wars  of  the  Roses,  and  as  the  eyes  of  the 
excited  girl  fell  upon  them,  it  appeared  to  her  that  the  spirits 
of  her  dead  ancestors  were  looking  out  from  the  bars  of  their 
avantailles  reproachfully  on  their  delinquent  daughter.  Hastily 
she  darted  past  them,  and  flew  down  the  stairs  and  reached  the 
vestibule,  and  there  she  met  another  interruption,  for  a  small 
favorite  greyhound — her  favorite  —  she  had  reared  it  from  a 
puppy  when  its  dam  perished  —  which  was  sleeping  on  the 


THE    WARNING.  101 

mat,  rose  up  and  fawned  upon  her,  and  would  not  be  repulsed, 
but  stood  erect  on  its  hinder  legs  and  laid  its  long  paws  on  her 
arm,  as  she  thought  afterward,  imploringly,  and  uttered  a  low 
ominous  whine  as  she  cast  it  off. 

She  unbolted  the  hall  door,  opened  it,  glided  out  like  a  guil 
ty  spectre  into  the  glimpses  of  the  moon — and  as  she  did  so  a 
fleecy  cloud  passed  over  the  pale  face  of  the  planet,  and  a  long 
wailing  cry  rose  plaintively  upon  the  still  night.  It  was  but 
the  cry  of  an  owl — there  were  hundreds  of  them  in  the  woods 
around,  and  she  heard  them  hoot  nightly — yet  now  she  shud 
dered  at  the  sound  as  if  it  were  a  warning  ;  and  was  it  not  so  ? 
The  smallest  things  are  instruments  in  the  hands  of  Him,  to 
whom  all  earthly  things  are  small. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

DESPITE  the  warning  sounds,  which  at  the  moment  smote  on 
her  soul  so  ominously,  Marian  went  down  the  steps  leading 
from  the  little  porch  into  the  garden,  although  her  steps  fal 
tered,  and  her  heart  beat  violently  between  fear  and  expecta 
tion,  and  the  consciousness  that  she  was  acting  wrongly.  Be 
fore  she  had  advanced,  however,  ten  paces,  round  the  corner 
of  the  hall,  into  the  grove  of  sycamores,  wherein  the  shadows 
fell  dark  and  heavy  over  the  gravel-walk  which  threaded  it, 
she  was  joined  by  Ernest  de  Vaux. 

He  appeared,  at  the  moment,  to  be  little  less  agitated  than 
she  was  herself;  his  countenance,  even  to  the  lips,  was  ashy 
pale,  and  she  could  see  that  he  trembled,  and  it  was  owing, 
perhaps,  to  this  very  visible  embarrassment  on  his  part,  that 
Marian  felt  less  forcibly  the  extreme  impropriety,  if  not  indeli 
cacy,  of  her  own  conduct. 

Had  he  come  to  meet  her,  confident,  proud,  and  evidently 
9* 


102  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

exhilarated  by  the  success  of  his  machinations,  it  is  possible 
that  her  modesty  would  have  been  offended ;  that  she  would 
have  discovered  the  danger  she  was  running,  and  withdrawn, 
ere  it  was  yet  too  late,  for  happiness  or  honor. 

But,  as  it  was,  when  she  saw  the  man  she  loved,  coming  to 
meet  her,  wan  and  agitated,  timid,  and  with  the  trace  of  tears 
on  his  pallid  cheeks,  a  sense  of  pity  rose  in  her  bosom,  and 
lent  its  aid  to  the  pleadings  of  that  deceptive  advocate  within 
her  soul,  which  needed  no  assistance  in  his  favor. 

Still,  as  she  met  him,  there  w^as  an  air  of  dignity,  and  self- 
restraint,  and  maidenly  reserve  about  her,  that  went  some  little 
way  at  least  to  screen  her  from  the  consequences  of  her  ex 
ceeding  indiscretion  ;  and  when  she  addressed  him  —  for  it  was 
she  who  spoke  the  first — it  was  in  a  voice  far  cooler,  and  more 
resolute,  than  the  mind  which  suggested  and  informed  it. 

"  I  trust,"  she  said,  "  my  Lord  de  Vaux,  that  you  have  good 
and  sufficient  cause  for  the  strange  request  which  you  made 
me  at  our  last  interview ;  some  cause,  I  mean,  sir,  that  may 
justify  you,  in  requiring  a  lady  to  meet  you  thus  clandestinely, 
and  alone,  and  her  in  consenting  to  do  so.  There  has  been  so 
much  strange  and  mysterious,  my  lord,  in  your  whole  conduct 
and  demeanor,  from  the  first  to  the  last ;  and  that  mystery — 
if  not  deceit — has  wrought  effects  so  baleful  on  my  sister's 
happiness,  that  I  confess  I  have  hoped  you  may  have  some 
thing  to  communicate  that  may,  in  some  degree,  palliate  your 
own  motives,  which  now  seem  so  evil ;  and  repair  the  positive 
evil  which  you  have  done  her.  It  is  on  this  consideration  on 
ly,  that  I  have  consented  to  give  you  a  hearing.  It  is  in  this 
trust  only,  that  I  have  taken  a  step,  which  I  fear  me  is  unmaid- 
enly  and  wrong  in  itself — but  it  is  by  my  motives  that  my  con 
duct  must  be  judged  ;  and  I  know  those  to  be  honorable  and 
correct.  Now,  my  lord,  may  it  please  you  to  speak  quickly 
that  you  have  got  to  say  ;  but  let  rrie  caution  you,  that  I  hear 


THE    CLANDESTINE    MEETING.  103 

no  addresses,  nor  receive  any  pleadings,  meant  for  my  own  ear 
—  one  such  word,  and  I  leave  you.  Speak,  my  lord!" 

"  You  are  considerate,  ever,  dear  young  lady,"  replied 
Ernest  de  Vaux,  in  tones  of  deep  respect,  not  drawing  very 
near  her,  nor  offering  to  take  her  hand,  nor  tendering  any  of 
those  customary  familiarities,  which,  though  perfectly  natural 
at  any  other  time,  might,  under  present  circumstances,  have 
had  the  effect  of  alarming  her,  and  checking  her  freedom  of 
demeanor. 

"  You  are  considerate,  ever,  dear  young  lady  !  and  I 
am  bold  to  say  it,  your  confidence  is  not  misplaced,  nor  shall 
your  trust  be  deceived  !" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Marian,  "  I  do  not  know,  my 
lord  !  It  is  for  you  to  show  that ;  at  present,  appearances  are 
much  against  you  ;  nor  do  I  see  what  explanation  you  can  make, 
that  shall  exonerate  you.  But  to  the  point,  my  lord,  to  the 
point !" 

"  None,  Miss  Hawkwood — none !  I  have  no  explanations 
that  I  can  make,  which  shall  exonerate " 

"  Then  why,"  she  interrupted  him,  warmly  and  energetical 
ly,  "  why  have  you  brought  me  hither  ?  or  to  what  do  you  ex 
pect  that  I  shall  listen  ? — not  methinks,  to  a  traitor's  love-tale." 

"  Which  shall  exonerate  me  —  I  would  have  said,"  De  Vaux 
resumed,  as  quickly  as  she  left  off  speaking,  "  had  you  permit 
ted  me  —  from  the  grossest  and  most  blind  folly — hallucination 
— madness  ! — Yes  !  I  believe  I  have  been  mad." 

"  Madness,  my  lord,"  exclaimed  Marian,  "  is  very  apt  to  be 
the  plea  of  some  people  for  doing  just  whatsoever  they  think 
fit — without  regard  to  principle  or  honor,  to  the  feelings  of 
their  fellow-creatures,  or  to  the  good  opinion  of  the  world.  I 
trust  it  is  not  so  with  you;  but  I,  for  one,  have  never  seen 
aught  in  your  conduct  that  was  incompatible  with  the  most  sound 
and  serious  sanity." 


104  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  I  may  speak  to  you  without  offence, 
dear  Mistress  Marian.  My  object,  in  requesting  you  to  hear 
a  few  last  words  from  a  very  wretched,  and  very  penitent  man, 
arose  from  a  painful  yearning  to  stand  pardoned,  if  not  justified, 
in  the  eyes  of  one  being  at  least,  of  this  family,  to  whom  I  owe 
so  much,  and  by  whom  I  am  now  so  grievously  misapprehended." 

"  Then  I  was  right !"  answered  Marian,  joyously,  and  her 
eye  sparkled  for  a  moment,  and  her  pale  cheek  flushed  crim 
son ;  "  then  you  have  some  excuse  to  offer — well!  my  lord, 
well.  It  was  in  hopes  of  hearing  such,  that  I  came  hither — 
there  can  be  no  offence  to  me  in  that — I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
hear  that  one  of  whom  I  have  thought  well,  is  worthy  of  such 
estimation." 

"  But  to  prove  that,"  he  answered,  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  "  I 
must  enter  upon  a  history ;  I  must  speak  to  you  of  things  that 
passed  long  ago  —  of  things  that  passed  at  York !" 

"  My  lord !"  and  she  started  back,  a  brief  spark  of  indigna 
tion  gleaming  in  her  bright  eyes,  "  my  lord  !" 

"  Nay,"  he  replied,  humbly  and  sadly,  "  if  you  forbid  me  to 
speak,  I  am  silent ;  but  by  no  means  can  I  exculpate  myself, 
but  by  naming  these  things  ;  and  I  asseverate  to  you  by  the 
earth  and  the  heavens,  and  all  that  they  contain !  —  I  swear  to 
you,  by  Him  who  made  them  all !  that,  if  you  deign  to  hear 
me,  I  have  a  perfect  and  complete  defence  against  all  but  the 
charge  of  folly.  And,  as  you  hope  for  happiness  yourself,  here 
or  hereafter,  I  do  conjure  you  to  hear  me  !" 

"  Your  promises  are  very  strong,  my  lord  ;  and  your  adjura 
tion  such,  that  I  may  not  refuse  to  listen  to  you." 

"  I  must  speak  to  you  of  yourself,  lady !" 

"Of  myself?" 

"Ay!  of  yourself — for  you,  Marian  Hawkwood,  are  the 
cause,  the  sole  cause  of  everything  that  has  appeared  inconsist 
ent,  base,  or  guilty,  on  my  part !" 


THE    FIRST    FALSE    STEP.  105 

"  I !  my  lord  —  I !  —  I  the  cause  of  your  inconsistency,  your 
guilt,  your  baseness  !"  she  cried,  indignantly.  "  Prove  it,  prove 
it ;  but  I  defy  you,"  she  added,  more  calmly,  and  with  a  scorn 
ful  intonation  of  voice:  "you  know  that  all  this  is  words  — 
words  —  false  and  empty  words  !  Now,  sir,  speak  out  at  once, 
or  I  leave  you — better  it  were,  perhaps, had  I  never  come  at  all !" 

Better,  indeed  !  Alas  !  poor  Marian,  that  your  own  words 
should  be  so  terribly  prophetic,  that  your  one  fault  should  have 
so  sealed  and  stamped  your  life  with  the  impression  of  remorse 
and  sorrow.  For  Ernest  de  Vaux  had  now  gained  his  end,  he 
had  so  stimulated  and  excited  her  curiosity,  and  through  her 
curiosity,  her  interest,  that  she  was  now  prepared,  nay,  eager, 
to  listen  to  words,  which,  a  little  while  before,  she  would  have 
shrunk  from  hearing.  And  he  perceived  the  advantage  he  had 
gained — for  all  his  seeming  agitation  and  embarrassment  were 
but  consummate  acting,  and  made  himself  ready  to  profit  by  it 
to  the  utmost. 

"  You  can  not  but  remember  lady,"  he  resumed,  artfully, 
adopting  the  unconcerned  tone  of  a  mere  narrator,  "  the  day 
when  I  first  saw  you  at  the  high-sheriff's  ball  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  very  charming  memories  I 
have  to  fix  the  time  or  place,  upon  my  mind,  of  an  event  by  no 
means  striking  or  delightful ;  was  it  at  the  high-sheriff's  ball  ? 
—  it  might  have  been,  doubtless  ;  for  I  was  there  —  and  if  you 
say  it  was,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  quite  right." 

But  this  affected  unconcern,  this  little  stratagem  of  poor  Ma 
rian,  availed  her  nothing  with  De  Vaux ;  for  he  saw  through  it 
in  a  moment.  He  knew  instinctively  and  instantly,  that  it  was 
affected  —  and  more,  the  affectation  convinced  him  that  there 
was  something  that  she  would  conceal ;  and  what  that  some 
thing  was,  his  consummate  knowledge  of  the  female  heart  in 
formed  him  readily.  But  he  replied,  as  if  he  was  taken  in  by 
her  artifice. 


106  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"  It  is  fortunate  for  you,"  he  said,  "  that  you  can  forget  so 
easily — would  to  God  that  I  had  been  able  to  do  likewise; 
but  if  you  have  forgotten  the  time  and  the  place,  I  can  not  be 
lieve  that  you  have  as  speedily  forgotten  the  deep  arid  evident 
impression  which  your  charms  made  upon  me — my  eagerness 
to  gain  your  acquaintance — my  constant  and  assiduous  atten 
tions —  in  short,  the  deep  and  ardent  passion  with  which  yon 
had  filled  my  very  soul,  from  the  first  hour  of  our  meeting." 

"  Indeed  !"  she  replied,  very  scornfully  and  coldly,  "you  do 
far  too  much  honor  to  my  penetration.  I  never  once  suspected 
anything  of  the  kind ;  nor  do  I  even  now  conjecture  what  mo 
tive  can  impel  you  to  feign,  what,  I  believe,  never  had  an  ex 
istence  in  reality/' 

"  You  must  have  been  blind,  indeed,  lady,  as  blind  as  I  was 
myself.  And  yet  you  can  not  deny  that  my  eye  dwelt  on  you  ; 
followed  you  everywhere — that  I  danced  with  you  constantly, 
with  you  alone,  and  that  when  I  danced  not  with  you,  I  waited 
ever  nigh  you,  to  catch  one  glance  from  your  eye,  one 
murmur  from  your  sweet  voice.  You  can  not  but  have  noticed 
this !" 

"  And  if  I  did,  my  lord  —  and  if  I  did,  ladies  of  birth  and  sta 
tion  do  not  imagine  that  every  young  man,  who  likes  to  dance 
with  them,  and  talk  soft  nonsense  to  them,  who  perhaps  thinks 
them  pretty  enough,  or  witty  enough,  to  while  away  a  tedious 
hour  in  the  country,  is  in  love  with  them,  any  more  than  they 
wish  gentlemen  to  flatter  themselves,  that  they  have  yielded  up 
their  hearts,  because  they  condescend  to  be  amused  by  lively 
conversation,  or  even  flattered  by  attentions,  which  they  receive 
as  things  of  course  !" 

"  And  did  you  so  receive  —  did  you  so  think  of  my  atten 
tions  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  lord,  I  don't  remember  that  I  thought 
anything  at  all  about  them,  that  I  perceived  them  even  !  But 


THE    DECLARATION.  107 

your  self-justification  is  taking  a  strange  turn.  To  what  is  all 
this  tending,  I  beseech  you  ?" 

"  To  this,  Marian  Hawkwood,  that  when  I  saw  you  daily, 
nightly,  at  York,  I  loved  you  with  the  whole  passionate  and 
violent  devotion  of  a  free,  honest  heart — that  I  endeavored  by 
all  means  in  my  power,  by  the  most  eager  and  assiduous  devo 
tion,  by  all  those  nameless  indescribable  attentions,  which  we 
are  taught  to  believe  that  women  prize  above  all  things — " 

"  Women  are  much  obliged  to  you,  my  lord,  upon  my  word!" 
she  interrupted  him. 

"  To  let  you  perceive,"  he  continued,  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
her,  "  to  make  you  understand  how  I  adored  you  ;  and  I  believed 
that  I  had  not  been  unsuccessful  —  I  believed  more,  that  you 
both  saw,  and  appreciated,  and  returned  my  love,  Marian !" 

"  Did  you,  indeed  1"  she  replied,  with  a  bitter  expression  of 
haughtiness  and  scorn.  "  Did  you,  indeed,  believe  so  ?  Then 
you  were,  in  the  first  place,  very  unhappily  mistaken  ;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  egregiously  misled  by  your  vain  self-conceit.'' 

"  I  believe  not.  Mistress  Marian,  ladies  are  generally  suffi 
ciently  clear-sighted  in  matters  that  concern  the  heart,  espe 
cially  when  men  endeavor  to  make  those  matters  evident  to 
them.  I  did  so,  and  you  received  my  attentions  with  very  evi 
dent  gratification.  I  do  not  now  believe  that  you  are  in  the 
least  a  coquette  —  though  I  did  think  so  for  a  time — besides,  I 
know  that  you  love  me  now." 

"  Love  you !"  she  replied,  with  a  burst  of  fiery  indignation, 
"  nay !  but  I  hate,  scorn,  loathe,  detest  you !"  and  she  gave  way 
in  a  moment,  to  a  paroxysm  of  violent  and  hysterical  weeping ; 
staggered  back  to  a  garden-chair  ;  and  sank  into  it  ;  and  lay 
there  with  her  head  drooping  upon  her  breast,  the  big  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheeks,  heavy  and  fast  as  summer's  rain,  and 
her  heart  throbbing  and  bounding  as  if  it  would  break  from  her 
bosom. 


108  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

ERNEST  DE  YAUX  gazed  on  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  with  a 
well-satisfied  and  scrutinizing  eye,  and  then  crept  with  a  noise 
less  foot  to  her  side  ;  knelt  down  on  the  turf  at  her  feet,  before 
the  paroxysm  had,  in  any  wise,  abated,  and  gained  possession 
of  her  hand,  after  a  moment  of  faint  and  ill-feigned  resistance. 

"  0  my  God  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  does  this  mean,  De 
Vaux  ?" 

"  It  means,"  he  answered,  with  a  voice  admirably  modulated 
to  suit  his  object,  "  it  means  that  I  adore  you,  that  I  have  adored 
you  ever,  that,  save  you,  I  never  loved  a  woman." 

"  How  dare  you  ?"  she  replied,  anger  again,  for  a  moment, 
gaining  the  ascendency  —  "  How  dare  you  mock  me  thus  —  and 
your  addresses  to  my  sister — what  did  they  mean,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Hear  me,"  he  said  ;  "  however  it  may  please  you  to  deny 
that  you  perceived  my  attentions,  that  you  remember  where  we 
first  met,  you  can  not,  I  think,  have  forgotten  the  morning,  the 
accursed  morning,  when  I  came  to  take  leave  of  you  before  set 
ting  forth  to  your  father's  house.  That  morning,  Marian,  I 
came  with  an  ingenuous  heart  upon  my  lips,  a  heart  to  cast  be 
fore  your  feet,  had  you  been  willing  to  receive  it.  But  on  that 
morning,  I  know  not  wherefore,  you  were  a  different  creature  ; 
petulant,  wilful,  wild,  repulsive  ;  for  at  this  moment,  I  must 
speak  the  truth — you  checked  my  speech,  you  jeered  and 
mocked  at  me,  you  spoke  strange,  whirling  words  against  the 
truth,  and  honesty,  and  honor  of  human  kind  at  large,  and  of 
men  in  particular — you  said  strange  things  about  your  beauti 
ful  and  charming  sister;  till  you  convinced  me  quite, though,  up 
to  that  time,  I  had  believed  that  you  loved  me,  that  from  the 


THE    EXPLANATION.  109 

beginning  you  had  merely  been  coquetting  with  me — that  you 
were  a  vain,  heartless  girl,  eager  for  admiration  only,  and  care 
less  of  the  agonies  which  your  caprice  had  occasioned." 

"  Ernest  de  Vaux  !" 

"  Marian  Hawkwood !" 

"  You  had  no  right — no  cause — no  shadow  of  a  reason  so 
to  surmise  !" 

"  Pardon  me,  lady,  your  conduct  left  no  possible  interpreta 
tion  else.  Even  at  this  moment,  when  I  know  that  it  was  not 
what  I  deemed  it,  I  still  am  at  a  loss  utterly  to  conceive  your 
motives  or  your  meaning.  You  never  hinted  to  me  even  that 
your  father  was  dead  long  ago,  though  I  spoke  to  you  of  visit 
ing  his  house.  You  called  on  me  to  promise  that  I  would 
never  whisper  to  your  family  that  I  had  seen  or  known  you. 
What  could  I  think  ?  what  do  ?  I  went  my  way  conceiving 
myself  a  man  scorned,  slighted,  outraged  in  the  tenderest  and 
nicest  point ;  I  went  my  way  with  a  heart  crushed,  and  yet  em 
bittered — humiliated,  and  yet  maddened." 

"  You  had  no  right,  I  say  it  again  ;  you  had  no  right  to  think 
so  ;  you  had  never  spoken  to  me  of  love — never  so  much  as 
hinted  it ;  ladies  do  not  believe  that  men  love  them,  because 
they  are  civil  at  a  morning  visit — attentive  at  an  evening  ball. 
Oh !  had  you  spoken  to  me ;  had  you  spoken  to  me  on  that  fatal 
morning,  Ernest  de  Vaux,  all  might — " 

"  All  might  what,  Marian,  all  might  what  ?"  he  interrupted 
her,  very  eagerly. 

"  All  might  have  been  understood  between  us,"  she  replied, 
coldly,  bridling  her  impetuosity  of  speech. 

"  But,  Marian  Hawkwood,"  he  made  answer  to  her,  "  if  la 
dies  do  not  believe  they  are  loved  till  they  are  told  so  in  plain 
words,  neither  will  gentlemen,  unless  they  be  consummate 
fools,  speak  those  plain  words  until,  at  least,  they  have  some 
little  cause  for  believing  that  those  words,  when  spoken,  will 

10 


110  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

be  acceptable.  Now,  on  the  morning  when  I  sought  you,  I 
fancied  that  I  had  such  cause  —  and  I  did  so  believe  —  and  I 
came  to  speak  those  plain  words  ;  but  by  your  own  changed 
tone,  and  altered  manner  — " 

"  True  !  true  !"  she  replied,  at  length,  in  sad  and  faltering 
tones,  quite  overcome  by  the  intensity  of  her  feelings  ;  for, 
strange  to  say,  De  Vaux  had,  perhaps,  struck  on  the  only  chord 
which  would  have  at  all  responded  to  his  touch;  certainly  on 
that  which  thrilled  the  most  powerfully  in  her  soul.  Had  he, 
indeed,  read  her  mind,  had  he  heard  the  thoughts  expressed 
aloud,  which  had  been  nourished  secretly  within  her  for  so 
long  a  time,  he  could  not  more  skilfully  have  ministered  to  her 
vanity,  have  gratified  her  curiosity,  have  appeased  her  wounded 
self-respect,  have  reawakened  her  half-dormant  passion  than 
he  did  now  by  the  course  which  he  adopted.  "  True  !  true  !" 
she  murmured,  suffering  her  head  to  fall  upon  her  bosom  in 
calm,  sad  despondency,  "  it  is  all  true — too  true  !  too  true  !" 

Her  dream  was  then  realized,  she  thought  within  herself;  it 
was  as  she  had  fancied  —  hoped  !  He  had  loved  her  from  the 
beginning,  and  her  only  ;  it  was  her  own  fault,  and  he  !  he  the 
idol  of  her  soul,  was  guiltless  —  alas!  how  prompt  are  we  to 
deceive  ourselves,  when  the  deception  pampers  our  desires  ! 

"  And  why,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  tenderly,  "  why  was 
it  so,  Marian  ?" 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  me,  sir ;  and  after  all,  your  de 
fence  is  faulty,  is  vain  ;  nothing  worth  !  If  you  loved  me,  even 
if  I  did  misuse  you,  how  does  that  palliate  your  treason  to  my 
sister  1  for  shame,  my  lord,  for  shame  !  How  dare  you  chal 
lenge  me,  or  question  my  deeds,  when  your  own  crime  glares 
in  the  eye  of  Heaven !" 

"  You  wrong  me,  Marian,  and  deceive  yourself ;  I  am  no 
traitor,  nor  have  I  ever,  wilfully,  ever  at  all,  wronged  your  sis 
ter.  There  is,  at  all  times,  a  reaction  of  the  heart  after  strong 


FIRST    AND    SECOND    LOVE.  Ill 

passion,  checked  and  cast  back  upon  itself.  Outraged  and 
wronged  by  one,  it  is  natural,  it  is  almost  a  necessary  conse 
quence,  that  we  fly  for  consolation,  for  love  to  another.  Pride, 
too  —  wounded  and  lacerated  pride — urges  us  to  win,  where 
we  have  lost  our  all,  in  the  love  of  woman.  And  so  it  was 
with  me.  To  my  own  soul's  deepest  belief,  in  my  most  holy 
and  most  sacred  conscience,  I  believe  that  I  loved  Annabel,  as 
I  had  never  loved  e,ven  you.  The  strange  similitude,  blended 
with  as  strange  dissimilitude,  between  your  styles  of  beauty, 
between  your  tones  of  thought,  between  your  characters  of 
mind,  yet  more  enthralled  and  enchained  me.  Then  I  per 
ceived,  as  I  thought,  that  Annabel  did  love  me  as  truly  as  you 
had  sported  with  me  falsely — and  there,  too,  was  I  mistaken! 
and  then  for  the  sweetest  drop,  the  most  powerful  ingredient  in 
the  love-philtre,  arose  the  thought  that  I  should  be  avenged  on 
you,  whom  then  I  hated,  as  I  had  loved  you  once,  more  than 
all  womankind  united.  I  was  happy,  quiet,  contented,  conscious 
of  honor — yes  !  Marian,  I  was  happy  !  till  you  returned  ;  and 
at  the  first  momentary  glance,  the  scales  fell  from  my  eyes,  and 
I  saw  that  you  loved  me,  the  darkness  vanished  from  my  heart, 
and  I  found  that  I  loved  you  yet  —  as  I  had  loved  you  before, 
madly — devotedly — for  ever!" 

"  My  God !  my  God  !"  exclaimed  the  wretched  girl,  wring 
ing  her  hands  in  the  excess  of  mental  anguish,  "  what  have  I 
done,  that  I  should  be  so  wretched  ?" 

"  Why,  why  should  you  be  miserable  ?"  replied  the  tempter  ; 
"  if  it  be  true,  as  you  say  it  is,  that  you  did  not  perceive  or  sus 
pect  my  love — that  you  have  never  cared  for  me — that  you 
now  hate  me  •?  Why,  Marian,  why  should  you  be  miserable  ?" 

"  Ernest  de  Vaux,"  answered  the  hapless  girl,  raising  her 
pale  face,  and  fixing  her  large  azure  eyes  full  on  his  features, 
"  why  trouble  you  me  any  further  ?  Between  you  and  me 
there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed.  If  you  did  love  me,  as  you  say,  and 


112  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

were  prevented  by  any  girlish  fears  or  girlish  folly  on  my  part, 
from  speaking  your  love  honestly — if  you  did  as  you  aver,  fall 
innocently  into  love  with  Annabel,  and  awake  from  that  fancied 
love  again  at  sight  from  me — what  does  it  avail  me  now  to 
hear  this  ?  Why  do  you  tell  it  to  me  ?  unless  it  be  to  make 
me  utterly  and  hopelessly  wretched,  by  contemplating  the  hap 
piness  which  might  have  been  mine  once,  but  from  which  I  am 
now  debarred  for  ever." 

"  It  may  be  yours  yet,  Marian — if  you  still  deem  it  happi 
ness  to  be  mine  —  my  own — my  own  wife,  Marian." 

"  How,  my  lord,  how  ?"  she  asked  with  a  sort  of  cool  and 
concentrated  indignation.  "  How,  without  utter  infamy  ?  You 
mistake  the  girl  you  address,  my  lord.  You  little  know  the 
heart  of  Marian  Hawkwood,  if  you  believe  that  she  would 
break  a  sister's  heart,  or  lose  her  own  good  fame  by  wedding 
with  her  traitorous  and  rejected  lover." 

"  Marian  —  she  never  loved  me  !  Her  calm  and  placid  tem 
per,  her  equable  and  quiet  spirit,  was  not  made  for  so  violent 
affections,  so  hot  passions,  as  true  love.  Even  to-day — " 

"  Hold!  my  lord — hold!"  Marian  almost  fiercely  interrupted 
him,  "  not  a  word  more  ;  even  to-day,  you  told  that  angel,  whom 
in  your  wickedness  you  dare  to  slander,  even  to-day,  you  told 
Annabel,  that  if  I  felt  any  passion  toward  you,  it  was  a  rash,  un 
sought,  and  unjustifiable  passion !  Those  were  your  very 
words — your  very  words  to-day,  when  she  would  have  resigned 
herself,  and  brought  us  honorably  wedded.  Oh !  man,  to  lie 
so  plausibly,  and  with  so  fair  a  grace,  you  are  but  too  forgetful. 
Begone,  my  lord,  begone  !  you  stand  self-convicted !" 

"  Marian,"  he  replied  solemnly,  and  lifting  his  right  hand  up 
impressively  to  Heaven,  "this  is  almost  too  painful,  but  I 
can  not,  no,  I  can  not  permit  innocence  such  as  yours  to  be 
thus  played  upon  by  jealousy  and  envious  selfishness  ;  I  swear 
to  you  by  the  honor  of  my  father,  by  my  mother's  virtue,  by 


THE    FALSE    OATH.  113 

HIM  who  made,  and  who  now  listens  to  us  both !  such  words 
as  those  never  passed  lip  of  mine  —  such  thoughts  were  never 
conceived  in  my  brain." 
And  it  did  not  thunder  !  — 

"  Alas  !  that  guilt  is  by  no  presage  known  ! 
The  tempter's  voice  hath  oft  the  truest  tone." 

"  You  did  not  tell  her  that — you  did  not  /"  cried  Marian, 
wildly,  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  "  deceive  me  not,  I  adjure 
you,  as  you  love  me,  as  you  hope  for  salvation !  deceive  me 
not,  now,  Ernest  de  Vaux !  You  did  not  tell  her  that  ?" 

"  As  I  hope  for  salvation,  I  did  not  J"  and  his  voice  did  not 
falter,  nor  his  cheek  blanch,  nor  his  lip  quiver,  as  he  swore, 
by  the  holiest  and  the  highest  thing  that  shall  be,  to  that  con 
summate  lie  !  "  Nay,  I  confessed  to  her  the  whole  truth  ;  I  told 
her  the  whole  truth ;  I  told  her  all,  and  all  as  I  have  told  it 
now  to  you ;  I  conjured  her  to  pardon  any  wrong  I  might  have 
most  unintentionally  wrought  her  —  for  she  had  told  me  before 
that,  with  a  mien  and  voice  as  firm  as  mine  are  now,  that  from 
the  moment  when  she  knew  my  love  for  you,  she  had  ceased 
entirely  to  regard  or  love  me !  and  I  implored  her  to  reconcile 
us  two,  that  together  we  might  yet  be  happy  ?" 

"  Can  these  things  be  ?"  replied  Marian,  gazing  into  his  eyes 
as  she  would  read  his  soul.  "  Oh  !  Ernest,  Ernest,  if  you  say 
these  words  from  the  hope  of  winning  me,  I  do  beseech  you, 
I  do  adjure  you  once  more,  on  my  knees,  Ernest,  dear,  dear 
Ernest — unsay,  unsay  it — do  not,  for  God's  sake,  sow  the 
seeds  of  distrust,  and  enmity,  and  hatred,  between  two  orphan- 
sisters.  Oh!  spare  me,  Ernest  De  Vaux,  spare  me!" 

"  I  would  to  God  that  I  could !"  he  answered  with  the  most 
perfect  and  unmoved  hypocrisy,  "  I  would  to  God  that  being  so 
adjured,  I  dared  unsay  them.  But  for  my  soul,  I  dare  not ; 
what  did  she  tell  you,  Marian  ?" 

10* 


114  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"That  you  denied  me — that  you  pronounced  my  love  for 
you,  rash,  unsought,  unjustifiable  ;  can  it  be  ?  God !  God !  I 
shall  go  mad  ;  can  it  be,  Annabel,  that  you  so  dealt,  with  me  ?" 

"  And  she  came  back  to  me,  and  told  me  with  calm  air  and 
pensive  look,  and  her  eyes  full  of  hypocritical  tears,  '  that  you 
were  so  much  set  against  me,  that  you  would  not  so  much 
as  hear  me — that  you  had  sent  me  a  fierce,  scornful,  passion 
ate  message,  which  she  would  not  do  you  the  wrong  to  deliver  !' " 

"  0  Annabel !  sister,  sister  Annabel !  Heaven  is  my  judge, 
I  would  not  so  have  done  by  you  to  win  an  eternity  of  bles 
sings  !" 

"  And  me,"  whispered  De  Vaux  softly  in  her  ears,  "  can  you 
pardon  me  now,  my  sweet  Marian  ?" 

"  Nay  !  my  lord,  I  have  naught  to  pardon ;  we  have  both  been 
deceived,  first  by  our  own  misconceptions,  and  then,  alas  !  alas  ! 
that  it  should  be  so !  by  my  own  sister's  treason.  If  there  be 
any  pardon  to  be  asked,  it  is  I  that  should  ask  yours,  De  Vaux." 

"  It  would  be  granted  ere  it  would  be  asked,  Marian,"  he  re 
plied,  "  but  now,  will  you  not  hear  me  ?  will  you  not  let  me  pray 
you  on"  — 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,  Ernest,  how  can  it  be  ?  What  my  God!  what 
would  you  ask  of  me  ?" 

"  To  be  mine,  mine  for  ever — my  wife,  my  own  wife,  Ma 
rian  !"  And  he  glided  his  hand  around  her  waist,  and  drew 
her  to  his  bosom  ;  and  she  no  longer  shunned  him,  nor  resisted, 
and  their  lips  mingled  in  a  first  kiss,  as  she  sighed  out  that  ir 
revocable  yes  !  Alas  !  for  Marian  ! 

"  But  how  ?"  she  whispered,  as  she  extricated  herself  blush 
ing  and  trembling  from  his  arms,  "  how  can  it  be  ?" 

"  You  must  fly  with  me,  ere  dawn,  my  love.  I  have  a  friend 
at  Ripon,  the  worthy  dean,  we  can  frame  easily  a  tale  to  win 
him  to  our  purpose,  who  will  unite  us  !  We  will  set  forward 
presently,  my  horses  are  equipped  even  now — your  palfrey 


THE  TEMPTER  PREVAILS.  115 

shall  be  made  ready — at  the  next  village,  we  can  get  some 
country-maiden,  who  will  accompany  you ;  at  Ripori  we  shall 
overtake  my  brothers  with  the  troops,  and  all  will  go  happily !" 
At  first  she  refused  positively,  then  faintly  and  more  faintly, 
as  that  false,  wily  man  plied  her  with  prayers  and  protestations 
—  nay,  tears  even,  and  at  last — oh  !  that  we  should  be  so  weak 
to  resist  deception,  when  our  own  hearts  conspire  with  the  de 
ceiver —  at  last,  amid  tears,  and  sobs,  and  kisses,  "while  say 
ing  I  *  will  ne'er  consent,'  consented.' " 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

STEALTHILY  as  Marian  had  descended  the  staircase,  to  keep 
that  fatal  rendezvous,  more  stealthily  yet  did  she  return.  At 
Annabel's  door  she  again  paused  for  a  moment ;  but  she  paused 
only  now  to  mark  if  she  slept  soundly  ;  to  hear  if  any  breath 
or  movement  betokened  that  she  was  awake  to  interrupt  her. 
At  first  she  heard  nothing,  but  by-and-by,  as  her  ear  became 
more  and  more  accustomed  to  the  silence  of  the  house,  and  as 
the  quick  beating  of  her  own  fluttering  heart  subsided  into  still 
ness,  which  for  a  time  had  filled  her  ears  with  its  tumultuous 
murmur,  she  could  distinguish,  without  difficulty,  the  deep  and 
regular  breathing  of  her  slumbering  sister  as  it  became  dis 
tinctly  audible  ;  and  she  was  satisfied  that  from  her  at  least 
she  was  in  no  danger  of  any  interruption.  Thence  the  unhap 
py  girl  crept  into  her  mother's  chamber  ;  which,  though  it  com 
municated  with  Annabel's  by  an  open  door,  and  though  she 
knew  that  the  slightest  noise  in  that  cherishe  1  chamber  was 
wont  to  arouse  her  sister,  she  felt  that  she  must  visit,  ere  she 
could  quit  the  home  of  her  fathers,  as  she  believed,  for  ever. 

Oh  I  there  is  something  indeed  holy  in  the  atmosphere  of  a 


116  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

mother's  chamber ;  and  that  holiness  fell,  not  like  a  soft  and 
gentle  balm,  but  like  a  keen  and  acrid  irritant  upon  the  wound 
ed  spirit  of  the  excited  maiden.  There  was  something  in  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  room  unaltered  from  her  earliest  childhood 

—  in  the  immovable  old-fashioned  furniture  which  had  survived 
in  its  quaint  old  age  so  many  owners,  which  had  looked  on  so 
many  changes  and  chances ;  in  the  grim  cornices  and  heavy 
sculptured  posts  of  the  huge  canopied  bedstead  ;  in  the  strange 
carvings  of  the  vast  oak  mantelpiece,  in  the  rich  dark  hues  of 
the  brocaded  hangings  ;  in  the  tall  cabinets  of  lacquered  In 
dian  ware  ;  in  the  fantastic  images  embossed  in  gold  upon  their 
doors,  at  which  her  childhood  used  to  shudder ;  in  the  very 
ticking,  slumberous  and  monotonous,  of  the  old  eight-day  clock, 
by  which  she  was  wont  years  ago  to  study  her  small  tasks  — 
there  was  something  in  all  this,  I  say,  that  operated  strangely, 
and  very  painfully  upon  the  mind  of  Marian  Hawkwood. 

She  was  embittered,  angry,  jealous  —  yet  more  indignant, 
heartsick,  at  what  she  believed  to  be  Annabel's  cruel  treachery 

—  than  angry  or  jealous  either.     Her  soul  had  drunk  in,  and 
received  as  truth,  all  the  base  falsehoods  of  that  false  and  fickle 
lover.     It  was  perhaps  impossible,  after  she  had  taken  the  first 
false  step  of  meeting  him  at  all,  that  it  should  be  otherwise  — 
and  resolved  as  she  was,  that  she  would  not  permit  the  whole 
bliss  of  her  life  to  be  frustrated  by  the  premeditated  baseness 
of   another,  she  yet  felt  and  appreciated  to  the  utmost,  the 
whole  bitterness  and  agony  of  her  position. 

Her  very  heart  was  wrung  by  the  idea  of  quitting  that  loved 
home,  that  cherished  mother,  those  dear  memories  at  all  —  and 
then  to  quit  them,  as  she  must,  clandestinely,  in  shame  and 
darkness,  and  dishonor — oh !  it  was  anguish  !  anguish  nnspeak- 
able! 

For  a  considerable  time,  Marian  stood  motionless  beside  the  bed 
of  the  paralytic  woman,  happy  for  once,  at  least,  in  the  very  thing 


YOUTH  AND  AGE  CONTRASTED.  117 

which  rendered  her  an  object  of  compassion ;  happy  that  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  sufferings  and  the  trials,  the  sins  and  the 
sorrows,  of  her  beloved  daughter. 

Wonderful,  terrible  contrast !  the  lovely  face  of  the  young  girl, 
in  its  wonted  aspect  so  bright,  so  radiantly  beautiful,  now  pale 
alternately  and  flushed,  harassed  and  agitated,  nay,  almost  distort 
ed,  and  showing  in  every  line,  every  feature,  the  prevalence  of 
fierce  and  overmastering  passion  !  And  in  the  calm,  composed, 
vacant — nay !  almost  infantile  expression  of  the  old  woman's 
countenance  !  The  one.  in  the  very  spring-time  of  life,  when 
all  should  be  innocence  and  peaceful  mirth,  so  full  of  unnatural 
and  stormy  tumults  of  the  soul !  The  other  in  extreme  old  age, 
when  the  traces  of  long  cares  and  many  sorrows  are  expected 
to  be  stamped  visibly  on  the  lineaments,  so  perfectly,  so  dead 
ly  tranquil ! 

For  many  moments  she  stood  there,  wistfully  gazing  on  her 
mother's  face,  as  it  showed  paler  even,  and  more  wan  and  death 
like  than  its  wont,  in  the  faint  moonbeams  ;  and,  as  she  gazed, 
a  milder  and  less  painful  expression  came  over  her  excited  fea 
tures  ;  and  her  sweet,  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears — not  the 
fierce  scorching  tears  of  passion,  which  seem  to  sear  rather 
than  soothe  the  brain,  but  the  soft,  gentle  drops  of  penitence 
and  moderated  sorrow.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  the 
bed,  and  burying  her  head  in  her  hands,  remained  there  half 
reclined,  her  whole  frame  shuddering  from  time  to  time,  with 
a  sharp  and  convulsive  tremor,  and  the  tears  flowing  so  abun 
dantly  that  all  the  bed-linen  was  moistene'd  by  her  weeping. 

Whether  she  prayed,  I  know  not — probably  not  in  words, 
nor  in  any  fixed  and  determined  mood  of  humble  supplication 
— but  it  would  seem  that  she  communed  with  herself  deeply, 
and  called  on  Heaven  to  guide  and  prosper  her  deliberations. 
For  she  uprose,  after  a  little  while,  with  a  serener  look  and  a 
quieter  eye,  and  as  she  rose,  she  said,  in  a  whisper  :  "  No  !  I 


118  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

will  not ;  I  will  not,"  and  had  already  turned  to  leave  the  cham 
ber,  when  from  the  inner  room,  wherein  Annabel  was  sleeping, 
there  came  a  rustle,  a  short,  sndclen  sound,  which  caused  Ma 
rian  to  stop  short  and  listen,  fearful  that  her  sister  was  awaken 
ing.  All  was  still  for  two  or  three  seconds,  and  then  the  noise 
was  repeated  more  loudly  than  before,  and  simultaneously  with 
the  noise,  several  words  were  uttered,  with  that  peculiar  into 
nation  which  always  characterizes  the  speech  of  somnambu 
lists.  Marian  listened  as  though  her  soul  was  suspended  on 
her  sense  of  hearing,  yet,  at  first,  she  could  distinguish  noth 
ing.  Annabel,  however,  ere  long  spoke  again,  and  the  second 
time,  unhappily,  her  lips  syllabled,  but  too  distinctly,  the  fatal 
name  of  Ernest. 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  brow  of  Marian  in  a  hot,  burning 
torrent,  her  eyes  lightened  with  fiery  anger — she  stamped  her 
small  foot  passionately  upon  the  carpet,  and  clenched  her  hand 
so  tightly  that  every  nail  left  its  visible  point  in  the  palm.  She 
ground  her  teeth  together,  and  muttered  through  them  : — 

"  Ah  !  is  it  then  so  ?  never  —  no  !  never  shall  she  have  him 
— never  !  never  !  never  !" 

So  slight  a  thing  will  at  times  suffice  to  change  our  whole 
souls  within  us — to  set  our  blood  boiling — to  alter  the  whole 
tenor  of  our  actions,  our  lives — to  decide  our  destinies  in  this 
world,  perchance  in  the  world  to  come  ! 

One  moment,  Marian  stood  resolved  to  bear  her  sorrows  bold 
ly  and  nobly  —  to  combat  writh  the  tempter,  and  be  strong — to 
do  her  duty,  let  what  might  come  of  it !  The  next,  and  the 
good  resolve  was  swept  from  her  heart  by  the  wild  rush  of  a 
thousand  evil  and  bitter  thoughts,  anger,  resentment,  jealousy, 
ambition,  pride  !  And  what,  what  was  the  puissant  spell  that 
had  evoked  these  baneful  spirits  ;  baneful  indeed,  for  fatal  was 
their  consequence  to  her,  and  to  all  those  that  loved  her  ;  these 
chance  words  spoken  by  a  disturbed  and  feverish  sleeper  ? 


A    TRIVIAL    INCIDENT.  119 

Alas !  she  paused  no  more,  nor  looked  again  on  her  scarce 
living  mother,  nor  gave  heed  to  the  memories  which  had  but 
now  so  nearly  won  her  ;  but  rushed  away  with  fleet  and  noise 
less  steps  to  her  own  chamber,  and  then  busily  applied  herself 
to  her  brief  preparations. 

Brief  indeed  were  the  preparations  which  she  had  the  time 
or  the  disposition  to  make,  on  that  night !  —  she  dressed  herself 
rapidly,  and  almost  mechanically,  in  a  dark  riding-dress  and 
velvet  cap,  hurriedly  thrust  a  single  change  of  raiment,  and  the 
small  casket  which  contained  her  few  simple  jewels,  into  a 
light  travelling  bag  of  scented  cordovan  leather,  which  had  by 
chance  been  left  in  her  room,  when  the  rest  of  her  baggage 
was  removed  on  her  return  from  York  ;  and  was,  within  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour,  prepared  to  set  off  on  her  untimely  journey, 
whither  she  knew  not,  nor  when  to  return  again ! 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  a  little  incident  occurred,  per 
haps  scarce  worth  recording  ;  yet  so  much  wisdom  may  be  de 
duced  oftentimes  from  observation  of  the  smallest  and  most 
seemingly  trivial  incident,  and  so  strongly  did  this,  I  think,  de 
note  the  extreme  perturbation  of  her  mind,  that  I  will  not,  tri 
fling  although  be  it.  leave  it  unmentioned. 

While  she  was  on  her  knees,  busily  packing  up  her  case,  a 
beautiful  tortoise-shell  cat,  a  soft,  glossy  creature,  which  she 
had  reared  up  from  a  little  kitten,  and  taught  to  follow  her  about 
like  a  dog,  jumped  down  out  of  a  large  arm-chair  in  which  it 
had  been  dozing,  and  trotted  toward  her  with  its  tail  erect,  ut 
tering  a  small  note  of  pleasure  and  affectionate  recognition. 
In  a  moment,  seeing  itself  unnoticed,  it  laid  its  velvet  paw  upon 
the  arm  of  its  young  mistress  with  an  impatient  mew  ;  but  she, 
preoccupied  with  quick  and  burning  thoughts,  repulsed  her 
with  so  rude  a  hand,  that  she  was  thrown  off  to  a  yard's  dis 
tance,  and  stood  gazing  as  if  in  astonishment  at  so  unkindly 
treatment  from  one  who  had  always  fondled  her  and  fed  her. 


120  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

The  very  moment  after  she  had  done  this,  as  if  repenting  the 
action,  she  caught  up  the  little  animal  in  her  arms,  and  burst 
into  tears,  as  she  kissed  and  addressed  it,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
human  creature. 

<k  Good-by,"  said  she,  "good-by,  poor  Pussy  ;  I  shall  never  see 
you  any  more  ;  you  will  be  fed  by  other  hands,  you  will  forget 
your  poor  mistress,  Pussy.  Yet  happier  will  you  be  than  I  — 
for  you  will  not  be  driven  from  your  pleasant  home — you  are 
riot  betrayed  or  deserted  by  your  friends  —  you  are  not  wronged 
by  those  you  love  —  for  you  love  no  one — happy  creature  !  love 
no  one  but  her  only  to  whom  you  look  for  food — happy,  happy 
creature  !  and  when  she  quits  you,  will  love  equally  the  next 
hand  that  shall  fondle  you!  —  for  you,  thrice  happy  that  you 
are  !  you  are  not  cursed  with  memory,  nor  with  affection,  nor 
with  passion — those  agonies  to  which  we  are  subject." 

Then,  for  some  minutes,  she  wept  very  bitterly,  still  holding 
the  cat  in  her  arms,  purring  with  pleasure,  and  patting  its  fair 
mistress's  cheek,  with  its  velvet  paws — until  the  distant  sound 
of  a  horse's  foot  upon  the  gravel  road  smote  on  her  ear,  a  sum 
mons  to  quit  the  home  of  her  youth,  the  friends  of  her  child 
hood —  and  for  what?  When  she  heard  it,  she  raised  her 
head,  and  gazed  about  her  wildly,  as  if  to  collect  her  thoughts, 
lifted  her  eyes  to  heaven,  while  her  lips  moved  very  rapidly  as 
if  in  inward  prayer. 

"  May  God  forgive  me  !"  she  said,  rising,  "  if  this  thing 
which  I  do  is  evil ;  and  oh !  may  he  guard  and  guide  my 
steps  aright  —  and  may  he  pardon  those  who  have  driven  me  to 
this !" 

And  then,  without  another  word,  she  laid  her  little  favorite  gen 
tly  down  on  the  bed,  and  snatching  up  the  leathern  case  which 
she  had  made  ready,  she  hurried  out  of  the  room,  not  once  casting 
her  eyes  behind  her,  for  she  felt  that  if  she  did  so,  her  resolution 
was  at  an  end  at  once,  and  stole  down  stairs,  silent  and  trem- 


EARLY    MORN    IN    AUTUMN.  121 

bling  between  fear  and  apprehension,  and  something  near  akin 
to  remorse. 

No  sound  this  time  came  to  appal  her ;  no  obstacle  occurred 
to  interrupt  her  progress,  yet  she  shuddered  as  she  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  that  once  happy  home,  and  a  quick,  chilly  spasm 
ran  over  her  whole  frame,  as  if  it  were  an  ague  fit.  Her  fate, 
however,  or  at  least  that  which  men  call  fate,  the  stubborn  and 
determined  energy  of  her  own  erring  passion — cried  out  with 
in  her,  and  nerved  her  body  to  do  that  which  she  knew  to  be 
imprudent,  and  almost  knew  to  be  wrong  likewise. 

She  raised  the  latch  of  the  front  door,  and  issued  forth,  clo 
sing  it  carefully  behind  her,  and  stood  upon  the  stone  steps, 
gazing  with  a  wistful  eye  over  the  calm  and  tranquil  scenery  of 
that  fair  valley.  The  autumn  morn  was  already  breaking 
in  the  east,  ere  yet  the  moonlight  had  faded  altogether  from  the 
sky — the  heavens  were  pure  and  cloudless,  and  colorless  as  a 
huge  vault  of  crystal,  except  where  on  the  horizon  a  faint  yel 
lowish  hue  was  visible,  first  harbinger  of  the  approaching  sun. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  astir  ;  even  on  the  topmost 
branches  of  the  tall  trees  about  the  hall,  the  sere  leaves, 
ready  to  flutter  down  at  the  slightest  breath,  hung  motionless 
— here  and  there  a  gray  mist  wreath  soared  up  ghostlike,  in  a 
straight  column,  from  some  small  pond  or  lakelet,  and  a  light 
smoky  haze  marked  the  whole  course  of  the  Wharfe  through 
the  lowlands  ;  the  frosted  dew  lay  silvery  white  over  the  lawn 
and  meadows  —  and  not  a  sound  or  tone  of  any  kind  except  the 
continuous  murmur  of  the  neighboring  rivulet,  swelling  the 
louder  for  the  cessation  of  all  other  noises,  was  to  be  heard 
through  the  sleeping  country.  The  earliest  bird  had  not  yet 
left  its  roost,  the  very  dogs  were  in  their  heaviest  slumber. 
And  Marian,  oppressed  as  she  was  by  sad  thoughts  and  heavy 
memories,  felt  that  the  silence  was  yet  more  oppressive  —  spoke 
more  reproachfully  to  her  conscience  than  the  loudest  and  most 

11 


122  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

vehement  rebuke.  Those  might  have  called  forth  anger  and 
awakened  in  her  heart  the  spirit  of  resistance  ;  this,  on  the  con 
trary,  appealed  to  her  better  reason,  and  voiceless  in  its  whole 
some  admonition,  led  her  to  self-blame  and  self-accusation. 

Had  she  stood  many  minutes  there  alone,  with  no  other  com 
rade  than  her  own  restless  and  tormenting  thoughts,  it  is  prob 
able  that  she  would  have  found  their  burden  intolerable,  and 
have  taken  refuge  from  them  in  a  return  to  her  duty  ;  but,  alas  ! 
ere  the  reaction  came,  the  voice  of  the  tempter  again  sounded 
in  her  ear ;  and  he,  she  loved  so  madly,  stood  beside  her. 

"  Sweet  Marian,"  he  murmured,  gently  passing  his  arm  round 
her  slender  waist,  "  why  did  you  tarry  so  long  ?  I  almost 
feared  that  something  had  occurred  to  detain  you  —  I  fancied 
that  your  sister  might  have  awakened,  and  perhaps,  have  even 
used  force  to  prevent  you.  Come,  dearest,  come,  the  horses 
are  prepared  and  await  us  by  the  hawthorn  bush  under  the 
hillock." 

Was  it  chance  —  Avas  it  accursed  and  premeditated  art,  that 
led  De  Vaux  to  utter  the  one  word  that  thrilled  every  chord  of 
her  soul,  that  instantly  attuned  her  to  his  purpose,  banishing 
every  soft  and  tender  memory,  and  kindling  jealousy  and  dis 
trust,  and  almost  hatred,  in  that  impulsive  soul,  from  which  they 
had  been  gradually  fading,  under  the  better  influence  of  quiet 
thought,  aided  by  the  tranquillizing  and  harmonious  sympathies 
of  nature  ? 

I  know  not ;  but  she  started  as  if  a  serpent  stung  her,  when 
the  word  sister  fell  upon  her  ear  ;  and  though  she  had  almost 
shrunk  from  De  Vaux  as  he  first  approached,  with  something 
more  than  the  mere  timidity  of  maiden  bashfulness,  she  now 
gave  him  her  hand  quickly,  and  said,  in  an  eager,  apprehensive 
voice  :  "  Come  !  come  !" 

He  led  her  down  the  gentle  slope,  to  the  spot,  where  a  sin 
gle  groom,  an  old,  grave-featured,  gray-haired  man,  was  hold- 


THE    ELOPEMENT.  123 

ing  two  horses,  and  her  favorite  palfrey.  He  lifted  her  to  her 
saddle,  sprang  to  his  own,  and,  without  another  word,  they  rode 
away,  gently  and  needfully,  till  they  had  left  the  precincts  of 
the  park  behind  them ;  but  when  they  had  once  gained  the 
road,  they  fled  at  a  rate  that  would  have  almost  defied  pursuit, 
had  there  been  any  to  pursue  them. 

But  there  were  none  ;  nor  was  her  flight  discovered  until 
she  had  been  gone  above  two  hours. 

The  morning  broke,  like  that  which  had  preceded  it,  serene, 
and  bright,  and  lovely ;  the  great  sun  rushed  up  the  blue  vault 
in  triumphant  splendor,  all  nature  laughed  out  in  his  glory — 
but  at  a  later  hour,  far  later  than  usual,  no  smoke  was  seen  curl 
ing  from  the  precincts  of  the  hall,  or  sign  of  man  or  beast  was 
visible  about  its  precincts.  The  passionate  scenes,  the  wild 
excitement  of  the  preceding  day,  had  brought  about,  as  usual; 
a  deep  reaction ;  and  sleep  sat  heavily  on  the  eyelids,  or  the 
souls  of  the  inmates.  The  first  who  awoke  was  Annabel  — 
Annabel,  the  bereaved  and  almost  widowed  bride. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

DRESSING  herself  in  haste  she  sought,  as  usual,  her  mother's 
chamber  and  found  her  happy — oh!  how  supremely  happy  in 
her  benighted  state,  since  she  knew  not,  nor  understood  at  all, 
the  sorrows  of  those  whom  she  once  had  loved  so  tenderly — 
found  her  in  a  deep,  calm  slumber  —  kissed  her  brow  silently, 
and  breathed  a  fond  prayer  over  her,  then  hurried  thence  to 
Marian's  chamber.  The  door  stood  open,  it  was  vacant !  Down 
the  stairs  to  the  garden  —  the  door  that  led  to  that  sweet  spot 
was  barred  and  bolted — the  front  door  stood  upon  the  latch,  and 
by  that  Annabel  passed  out  into  the  fresh  young  morning. 


324  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

How  fair,  how  peaceable,  how  calm,  was  all  around  her — how 
utterly  unlike  the  strife,  the  trials,  the  cares,  the  sorrows,  the 
hot  hatreds  of  the  animated  world — how  utterly  unlike  the  anx 
ious  pains  which  were  then  gnawing  at  that  fair  creature's 
heart-strings  ! 

She  stood  awhile,  and  gazed,  around  and  listened,  but  no 
sound  met  her  ear,  except  the  oft-heard  music  of  the  wind  and 
water — except  the  well-known  points  of  that  familiar  scene  ; 
she  walked  —  she  ran — a  fresh  fear  struck  her,  a  fear  of  she 
knew  not  what — she  flew  to  the  garden  —  "  Marian  !  Marian  !" 
—  but  no  Marian  came  !  no  voice  made  answer  to  her  shrill 
outcries — back!  back!  she  hurried  to  the  house,  but  in  her 
way  she  crossed  the  road  leading  to  the  stables — there  were 
fresh  horse-tracks  —  several  fresh  horse-tracks  —  one  which 
looked  like  the  print  of  Marian's  palfrey ! 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  rushed  into  the  stable- 
court ;  no  groom  was  there,  nor  stable-boy,  nor  helper — and 
yet  the  door  stood  open,  and  a  loud  tremulous  neighing  —  An 
nabel  knew  it  instantly  to  be  the  call  of  her  own  jennet — was 
awakening  unanswered  echoes.  She  stood  a  moment  like  a 
statue  before  she  could  command  herself  to  cross  the  threshold. 

She  crossed  it,  and  the  stall  where  Marian's  palfrey  should 
have  stood,  next  her  own,  was  vacant. 

The  chargers  of  De  Yaux  were  gone  ;  the  horses  of  his  fol 
lowers —  all,  all  gone  !  She  shrieked  aloud  —  she  shrieked, 
till  every  pinnacle  and  turret  of  the  old  hall,  till  every  dell  and 
headland  of  the  hills,  sent  back  a  yelling  echo.  It  scarcely 
seemed  a  second  before  the  courtyard,  which,  a  moment  since, 
was  so  silent  and  deserted,  was  full  of  hurrying  men  and  fright 
ened  women — the  news  was  instantly  abroad  that  Mistress 
Marian  had  been  spirited  away  by  the  false  lord.  Horses  were 
saddled  instantly,  and  broadswords  girded  on,  and  men  were 
mounting  in  hot  haste,  ere  Annabel  had  in  so  much  recovered 


THE    PURSUIT.  125 

from  the  shock  as  to  know  what  to  order  or  advise  —  evil  and 
hasty  counsels  had  been  taken,  but  the  good  vicar  and  the  pre 
bendary  came  down  in  time  to  hinder  them. 

A  hurried  consultation  was  held  in  the  house,  and  it  was 
speedily  determined  that  the  two  clergymen  should  set  forth  on 
the  instant,  with  a  sufficient  escort  to  pursue,  and  if  it  should 
be  possible,  bring  back  the  fugitive  —  and  although  Annabel  at 
the  first  was  in  despair,  fancying  that  there  could  be  no  hope 
of  her  being  overtaken,  yet  was  she  somewhat  reassured  on 
learning  that  De  Vaux  could  not  quit  his  regiment,  and  that  the 
slow  route  of  the  troopers  on  a  long  march  could  easily  be 
caught  up  even  by  aged  travellers. 

The  sun  was  scarce  three  hours  high  when  the  pursuers 
started — all  that  day  long  it  lagged  across  the  sky — it  set,  and 
was  succeeded  by  night,  longer  still,  and  still  more  dreary — 
another  day !  and  yet  another  !  Oh,  the  slow  agony  of  wait 
ing!  the  torture  of  enumerating  minutes  !  —  each  minute  seem 
ingly  an  age — the  dull,  heart-sickening  suspense  of  awaiting 
tidings — tidings  which  the  heart  tells  us — the  heart,  too  faith 
ful  prophet  of  the  future  —  can  not,  by  possibility,  be  good! 
While  Reason  interposes  her  vain  veto  to  the  heart's  decision, 
and  Hope  uplifts  her  false  and  siren  song ! 

The  third  night  was  at  hand,  and  Annabel  was  sitting  at  the 
same  window — how  often  it  occurs,  that  one  spot  witnesses 
the  dozen  scenes  most  interesting,  most  eventful  to  the  same 
individual. 

Is  it,  that  consciousness  of  what  has  passed,  leads  man  to 
the  spot  marked  by  one  event,  when  he  expects  another  ?  or 
can  it  be  indeed  a  destiny  ? 

The  third  night  was  at  hand,  and  Annabel  was  sitting  at  that 
same  window,  when,  on  the  distant  highway,  she  beheld  her 
friends  returning,  but  they  rode  heavily  and  sadly  onward ;  nor 
was  there  any  flutter  of  female  garbs  among  them.  Marian 

11* 


126  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

was  not  among  them  ?  They  came — the  story  was  soon  told! 
— they  had  succeeded  in  overtaking  the  regiment,  they  had 
seen  Ernest,  and  Marian  was  his  wife  ! 

The  register  of  her  marriage,  duly  attested,  had  been  shown 
to  her  uncle  in  the  church  at  Ripon,  and  though  she  had  re 
fused  to  see  them,  she  had  sent  word  that  she  was  well  and 
happy,  with  many  messages  of  love  and  cordiality  to  Annabel, 
and  promises  that  she  would  write  at  short  and  frequent  in 
tervals. 

No  more  was  to  be  done — nothing  was  to  be  said  at  all. 
Men  marvelled  at  De  Vaux,  and  envied  him !  Women  blamed 
Marian  Hawkwood,  and  they,  too,  envied !  But  Annabel  said 
nothing — but  went  about  her  daily  duties,  tending  her  helpless 
mother,  and  answering  her  endless  queries  concerning  Marian's 
absence,  and  visiting  her  pensioners  among  the  village  poor, 
seemingly  cheerful  and  contented.  But  her  cheek  constantly 
grew  paler,  and  her  form  thinner  and  less  round.  The  sword 
was  hourly  wearing  out  the  scabbard !  The  spirit  was  too 
mighty  for  the  vessel  that  contained  it. 

Five  years  passed  thus — five  wearisome  long  years — years 
of  domestic  strife  and  civil  war,  of  bloodshed,  conflagration,  and 
despair,  throughout  all  England.  The  party  of  the  king,  supe 
rior  at  the  first,  was  waxing  daily  weaker,  and  was  almost  lost. 
For  the  first  years  Marian  did  write,  and  that,  too,  frequently 
and  fondly,  to  her  sister  ;  never  alluding  to  the  past,  and  seldom 
to  De  Vaux,  except  to  say  that  he  was  all  she  wished  him,  and 
she  more  happy  than  she  hoped,  or  deserved  to  be.  But  grad 
ually  did  the  letters  become  less  frequent  and  more  formal ; 
communications  were  obstructed,  and  posts  were  intercepted, 
and  scarce,  at  last,  did  Annabel  hear  twice  in  twelve  months 
of  her  sister's  welfare.  And  when  she  did  hear,  the  corre 
spondence  had  become  cold  and  lifeless  ;  the  tone  of  Marian, 
too,  was  altered,  the  buoyancy  was  gone — the  mirth — the  soul 


FIVE    YEARS    AFTER.  127 

—  and,  though  she  complained  not,  nor  hinted  that  she  was  un 
happy,  yet  Annabel  saw  plainly  that  it  was  so.  Saw  it,  and 
sorrowed,  and  said  nothing. 

Thus  time  passed  on,  with  all  its  tides  and  chances,  and  the 
old  paralytic  invalid  was  gathered  to  her  fathers,  and  slept  be 
side  her  husband  in  the  yard  of  the  same  humble  church  which 
had  witnessed  their  union  —  and  Annabel  was  more  alone  than 
ever. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

FIVE  years  had  elapsed  since  Marian  had  fled  from  Inglebor- 
ough  hall,  and,  as  I  have  said  already,  Annabel  knew  but  little 
what  had  passed  with  the  cherished  sister  since  her  flight. 
She  knew,  indeed,  that  for  the  first  years  of  her  marriage  she 
was  happy  ;  and  so  joyously  did  she  sympathize  with  that  hap 
piness,  so  sincerely  did  her  letters,  whenever  she  had  an  op 
portunity  of  writing,  express  that  sympathy,  unmixed  with  any 
touch  of  jealousy  or  enviousness,  that  Marian  could  not  long  re 
sist  the  growth  of  the  conviction,  strengthened  at  every  re 
newal  of  the  correspondence,  that  Ernest  had  deceived  her,  in 
the  account  by  which  he  had  prevailed  on  her  to  elope  with 
him.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  very  strange,  however — for  we  can 
not  call  anything  strange  with  propriety  that  is  of  usual  occur 
rence —  that,  so  long  as  Ernest  de  Vaux  continued  to  be  the 
rapturous  lover,  and  after  that,  the  gentle  and  assiduous  hus 
band,  she  felt  no  resentment,  nor  indeed  any  inclination  to 
blame  him  for  the  deceit,  which  had  produced  only  happy  re 
sults  to  herself,  and  had  resulted  in  no  permanent  estrangement 
or  breach  of  confidence  between  herself  and  Annabel.  What 
contributed,  moreover,  in  no  slight  degree  to  this  placability  on 


128  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

Marian's  part,  was  that,  without  ever  actually  confessing  that 
he  had  spoken  falsely,  De  Vaux,  as  soon  as  she  was  once  irre 
vocably  his,  exerted  himself  to  palliate  the  conduct  of  Annabel, 
representing  it  as  a  natural  result  of  galled  and  wounded  feel 
ings,  as  a  lapse  to  be  pitied  rather  than  blamed  severely,  and 
effectually  succeeded  in  re-establishing  kind  thoughts  in  her 
heart.  And  so — for  poor  Annabel  never  knew  nor  imagined 
aught  of  Marian's  causeless  suspicion  and  dislike — brought  the 
sisters  back  to  their  wonted  footing  of  perfect  familiarity  and 
untrammelled  confidence. 

Still,  in  despite  of  this,  though  Marian  had  nothing  which 
she  desired  to  conceal  from  her  sister,  except  what  she  be 
lieved  to  be  the  solitary  instance  of  deception  in  her  husband  — 
which,  though  she  excused  it  to  herself  as  a  sort  of  pious  fraud, 
necessary  to  insure  her  happiness,  she  yet  felt,  as  it  were  intui 
tively,  that  Annabel  could  neither  regard  in  that  light,  nor  ever 
pardon  very  readily — though  Marian,  I  say,- had  nothing  except 
this  which  she  desired  to  conceal,  and  though  her  sister  was  the 
very  soul  of  frankness  and  ingenuous  truth,  still  any  correspon 
dence,  even  the  freest  and  most  unreserved,  is  but  a  sorry  sub 
stitute  for  personal  intercourse  and  conversation,  and  can  at 
best  but  convey  very  slightly  an  idea  of  the  true  state  of  senti 
ments,  emotions,  and  events,  especially  when  they  are  pro 
tracted  through  a  long  course  of  years. 

Events,  and  the  course  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  civil  war, 
which  was  waged  for  the  most  part  in  the  southern  and  midland 
counties,  had  prevented  the  sisters  from  meeting,  Annabel  re 
maining,  during  the  lifetime  of  her  beloved  mother,  assiduously 
and  earnestly  devoted  to  her  comforts,  while  Marian,  for  the 
most  part,  followed  the  court  of  the  unhappy  Charles,  who,  still 
at  Oxford  or  elsewhere,  kept  up  the  semblance,  at  least,  of  his 
kingly  style,  and  held  his  parliament  of  such  peers  as  remained 
true  to  the  cause  of  their  own  order,  of  the  church  and  the  crown. 


CAMP    AND    COURT.  129 

Among  all  the  bold  cavaliers,  who  fought  and  bled  so  gener 
ously  for  the  unhappy  king,  the  most  unhappy  and  least  vicious 
of  an  unhappy  vicious  race,  there  was  not  one  more  gallant,  one 
who  achieved  more  glory  than  De  Vaux.  Among  all  the  fair 
dames,  aristocrats  of  nature,  as  of  birth,  who  graced  the -halls 
of  declining  royalty,  there  was  not  one  more  lovely,  more  ad 
mired,  or  more  followed,  than  the  bright  and  still  happy  Marian. 
Delighted  by  the  fame  and  honors  which  daily  fell  more  thickly 
on  her  husband,  amused,  pleased,  and  dazzled,  by  the  novelty 
of  her  position,  for  a  considerable  time  Marian  believed  herself 
perfectly  happy,  as  she  believed  herself  also  to  be  devotedly 
beloved  by  her  husband. 

The  very  hurry  and  turmoil  in  the  midst  of  which  she  neces 
sarily  lived,  was  not  without  its  wild  and  half-pleasurable  ex 
citement —  after  custom  and  experience,  and  the  seeing  him  re 
turn  home  victorious  and  unwounded,  had  steeled  her  against 
the  terrors  and  the  anguish  which  assailed  her  at  first,  when 
ever  he  rode  forth  to  battle  ;  there  was  a  sort  of  charm  in  the 
short  absences,  from  which  he  ever  hurried  home,  as  it  ap 
peared  more  fond  and  more  enamored  than  in  the  first  days  of 
her  wedded  life.  This  hurry  and  turmoil,  moreover,  afforded 
to  De  Vaux  constant  and  plausible  excuses  by  which  to  account 
for  and  mask  his  irregularities,  which  became  in  truth  more  and 
more  frequent,  as  the  fresh  character  and  lovely  person  of  his 
wife  gradually  palled  on  him  by  possession.  For  in  truth  he 
was  a  wild,  reckless,  fickle  man — not  by  any  means  all  evil, 
or  without  many  generous  and  gentle  impulses,  although  these 
had  been  growing  daily  weaker  and  less  frequent  through  a  life 
of  self-indulgence  and  voluptuousness,  till  very  little  was  now- 
left  of  his  original  promise,  save  courtly  manners,  a  fair  exterior, 
and — simply  to  do  him  justice  —  a  courage  as  indomitable,  cool, 
and  sustained,  as  it  was  vigorous  and  fiery. 

He  lived  in  a  period  of  much  license — he  was  the  eldest  son 


130  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

of  a  cloating  father — he  had  lost  his  mother,  while  he  was  yet 
a  mere  boy — all  three  vast  disadvantages — vast  misfortunes  to 
a  young  man.  Indulged  to  the  utmost  of  his  wild  and  fantastic 
wishes  by  his  father,  encouraged  rather  than  checked  in  those 
extravagances  which  the  cavaliers  of  the  day  affected  some 
what,  in  order  to  mask  their  detestation  of  the  cold-blooded  hy 
pocrisy  and  ridiculously  insincere  profession  of  those  most  odious 
impostors  who  constituted  the  vast  majority  of  the  puritanic 
leaders — launched  very  young  into  the  world,  with  handsome 
person,  courtly  manners,  high  rank,  and  almost  boundless  wealth, 
his  success  with  the  women  of  the  court,  in  an  age  the  most 
licentious  England  had  then  witnessed,  was  wide  and  un 
bounded. 

He  had  already  become  the  most  hardened  being  in  the 
world,  a  cool  voluptuary,  a  sensual,  luxurious,  calculating  cour 
tier,  when  he  met  Marian  at  the  sheriff's  ball,  at  York,  and 
was  struck  instantly  by  her  extraordinary  beauty.  Having  ap 
proached  her  in  consequence  of  this  admiration,  tired  as  he 
was,  and  sick  of  the  hackneyed  and  artificial  characters,  the 
affectations,  and  minauderies,  and  want  of  heart  of  all  the  wo 
men  with  whom  he  had  as  yet  been  familiar,  he  was  soon  yet 
more  captivated  by  the  freshness  of  her  soul,  the  artlessness  of 
her  manner,  the  frank,  ingenuous,  off-handed  simplicity  of  her 
bright,  innocent  youth,  fearless  of  wrong,  and  unsuspicious  of 
evil,  than  he  had  been  by  her  beauty.  So  that  before  he  was 
compelled  by  paramount  duty — the  only  duty  which  he  owned, 
military  duty,  namely — to  quit  York,  he.  was  as  much  in  love 
as  his  evil  course  of  life  and  acquired  habits  had  left  him  the 
power  of  being,  with  the  sweet  country  maiden.  That  is  to 
say — he  had  determined  that  the  possession  of  her  was  actu 
ally  necessary  to  his  existence,  and  a  thing  to  be  acquired  on 
any  terms — nay!  he  had  even  thought  many  times,  that  she 
might  be  endurable  for  a  much  longer  period  than  any  of  his 


A    BRIEF    RETROSPECTION.  131 

former  loves,  and  begun  to  fancy,  that,  when  his  passion  should 
have  settled  down  into  esteem,  he  might  be  able  to  tolerate  in 
Marian  Hawkwood,  the  character  he  most  dreaded  in  the 
world,  that  of  a  lawful  wife 

There  was  something  in  the  whole  air  and  demeanor  of  Ma 
rian  Hawkwood,  that  told  the  young  debauchee,  almost  instinc 
tively,  that  there  was  but  one  name  in  which  she  could  be 
addressed  —  a  purity  and  innocence  of  heart  and  manner,  like 
wise,  which  would  have  prevented  the  most  dissolute  and  daring 
of  mankind  from  dreaming  even  of  approaching  her  with  dis 
honorable  addresses.  Now,  it  was  difficult  for  a  man  of  De 
Vaux's  character  and  principles — if  that  can  be  called  princi 
ple  which  is  rather  a  total  absence  of  all  principle  —  accustomed 
to  doubt  and  disbelieve  and  to  sneer  at  the  possibility  of  female 
virtue,  to  bring  himself  to  the  resolution  of  deliberately  offering 
his  hand  to  any  woman,  how  passionately  he  might  be  attached 
to  her  soever  ;  and  this  difficulty  of  making  up  his  own  mind  it 
was,  and  not  any  timidity  or  bashfulness — things  utterly  strange 
and  unknown  to  his  hard  and  worldly  nature — which  caused 
that  irresolution  which  had  given  offence  so  deep  to  Marian 
Hawkwood. 

It  can  not  be  denied  that  her  manner  on  that  interview  did 
pique  and  provoke  him  beyond  measure — that  it  threw  him  into 
doubt  as  to  the  question  whether  she  did  indeed  love  him  or 
not,  and  by  awakening  for  a  moment  an  idea  of  the  possibility 
of  his  being  rejected  —  an  idea  which  had  never  so  much  as 
occurred  to  him  before,  even  casually,  materially  increased  his 
dislike  to  subsiding  into  a  tranquil  and  domestic  Benedict. 

These  were  the  real  reasons  for  his  seemingly  extraordinary 
conduct  toward  Marian  in  the  first  place  ;  and  not  at  all  that 
which  he  had  stated,  for  he  had  been  indeed  false  —  false  from 
the  beginning. 

It  was  then  in  a  singular  state  of  mind,  vexed  with  himself 


132  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

and  irritated  at  finding  himself  subject  to  a  passion  seemingly 
hopeless,  annoyed  that  he  was  unable  to  shake  off  that  passion 
lightly,  indignant  with  Marian  for  not  appreciating  sufficiently 
the  honor  he  had  done  her,  in  so  much  as  thinking  of  making 
her  his  wife,  foiled,  furious,  discontented,  and  devoured  all  the 
time  by  the  agony  of  his  fierce  desire — for  it  is  mere  profana 
tion  to  call  that  which  he  felt,  love — he  set  forth  from  York  to 
visit,  as  he  imagined,  the  father  of  his  cruel,  fair  one. 

Many  wild  schemes  and  projects  flitted  through  his  mind  as 
he  journeyed  westward,  which  it  were  neither  profitable  nor 
pleasing  to  follow  out ;  but  each  and  all  of  these  had  reference 
to  winning  Marian  in  some  shape  or  other,  and  at  some  period 
not  remote. 

What  occurred  when  he  reached  Ingleborough,  is  known  al 
ready  to  those  who  have  thus  far  followed  the  fortunes  of  the 
sisters  ;  but  what  in  truth  passed  in  the  recesses  of  his  own 
heart  has  never  been  divulged,  nor  can  be  known  to  any  one. 
It  may  be  that  pique  and  anger  at  Marian's  manner  when  they 
parted  had  really  disposed  him,  as  he  said,  to  love  another 
honestly  and  truly.  It  may  be  that  the  exquisite  repose  and 
charming  sweetness  of  Annabel  did  indeed  win  upon  his  soul 
and  work  for  the  time  a  partial  reformation — but  what  alone  is, 
certain  is,  that  he  felt  more  of  that  repugnance  to  sacrificing 
what  he  called  his  liberty,  which  had  actuated  him  with  regard 
to  Marian,  when  he  proposed  to  Annabel. 

It  may  be,  on  the  other  hand — and  it  would  be  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  either  his  past  character  or  after  conduct — 
that  fickle  and  light  as  he  was,  and  very  liable  to  be  captivated 
for  the  momeiit  by  the  charms  of  women,  that,  I  say,  he  was 
influenced  by  a  twofold  motive — twofold  and  doubly  base  —  of 
gratifying  a  passing  caprice  in  marrying  Annabel,  and  inflicting 
the  heaviest  punishment  he  could  imagine  on  her  sister  at  the 
same  time,  It  is  probable,  even,  that  he  might  have  had  baser 


A    RESOLUTION    TO    DO    OR    ENDURE.  133 

and  more  infamous  projects  in  view,  with  respect  to  poor  Ma 
rian  ;  and  it  is  certain  that  he  looked  to  the  disturbed  and  per 
ilous  state  of  the  country,  as  to  a  favorable  position  of  things 
to  his  purpose,  should  he  desire  to  abandon  his  fair,  young  wife 
after  a  time  —  seeing  that  she  had  no  influential  relations  to 
protect  her,  and  that  if  peace  should  be  restored  at  last,  little 
inquiry  was  likely  to  be  made  after  affairs  of  mere  personal 
consideration. 

Frustrated  in  his  intentions  by  the  return  of  Marian,  and  by 
her  inability  to  conceal  the  violence  of  the  hopeless  love  which 
she  still  nourished  for  her  sister's  wooer,  although  she  nourished 
it  without  one  thought  of  evil  entering  her  pure  spirit,  having 
betrayed  moreover  his  own  maddening  passion,  which  returned 
upon  him  with  redoubled  violence,  when  he  was  thrown  again 
into  her  society,  he  could  not  endure  the  scorn,  the  contempt, 
which  he  felt  gathering  around  him,  nor  bear  the  publicity  of 
his  disappointment. 

It  was  the  fear  of  this  publicity,  then,  and  the  determination 
that  he  would,  under  no  circumstances,  leave  Ingleborough  in 
the  character  of  a  rejected  and  disappointed  suitor,  that  induced 
him  to  renew  his  solicitations  to  poor  Marian.  Shrewd  and 
keen-sighted,  and  able  judge  of  character  as  he  was,  he  readily 
perceived  that  in  the  calm  and  composed  soul  of  Annabel  Hawk- 
wood,  there  was  a  deep,  settled  principle,  a  firm  and  resolute 
will,  a  determination  capable  of  calling  forth  any  powers,  wheth 
er  it  were  to  do  or  endure.  It  required,  therefore,  little  reflec 
tion  to  show  him  that  with  her  he  had  now  no  possibility  of 
succeeding — that  once  detected,  as  he  felt  himself  to  be,  his 
whole  mind  and  motives  perused  and  understood  as  if  they  had 
been  written  out  in  a  fair  book  for  her  inspection,  the  very  love 
which  she  had  entertained  for  him  in  the  past,  would  but  the 
more  strongly  arm  her  against  him  in  the  present. 

Nor  was  this  all — for  even  his  effrontery  was  at  fault,  even 

12 


134  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

his  natural  audacity  shrank  from  encountering  the  tranquil 
scorn,  the  quiet  and  unutterable  loathing  which  he  saw  visible 
in  every  glance  of  her  mild  eye.  Ere  long,  between  the  sense 
that  he  had  irreparably  injured  her,  and  the  knowledge  that 
she  understood  him  thoroughly,  he  came  to  hate  her  with  a  ve 
hement  and  bitter  hatred. 

In  this  hatred,  too,  he  found  a  new  instigation  to  persevere 
in  his  attempts  on  Marian,  for  he  was  certain  that,  although 
the  ordinary  sources  of  annoyance,  envy  or  jealousy,  could  never 
inflict  a  single  sting  on  Annabel,  he  could  wreak  no  heavier 
vengeance  on  her  than  by  making  her  beloved  sister  his  wife 
— the  wife  of  a  man  whom  she  despised  so  utterly — and  he 
acknowledged  it  in  his  own  secret  soul  —  so  worthily. 

Unhappily,  in  the  impulsive  and  impetuous  character  of  Ma 
rian,  which  he  had  studied  to  its  inmost  depths,  he  encountered 
no  such  resistance  as  he  knew  he  should  encounter  from  her 
sister.  Falsehoods  which  would  have  been  discovered  instantly 
and  rejected  with  scarce  a  consideration,  by  the  quiet  thought- 
fulness  and  innocent  penetration  of  the  elder  sister,  wakened 
suspicions  in  the  quicker  mind  of  the  younger,  galled  her  to 
the  very  quick,  dwelt  in  her  heart,  filling  it  with  bitterness  and 
gall,  and  at  last  ripened  into  terrible  and  dark  convictions  of 
the  unworthiness  of  her  who  was,  in  truth,  the  best  of  sisters, 
and  the  tenderest  of  friends. 

These  were  the  motives,  these  the  means  of  Ernest  de  Vaux 
—  and  we  have  seen,  alas  !  how  fully  they  succeeded. 

What  are  the  necessary  consequences  of  a  marriage  contracted 
with  such  views  as  these,  founded  upon  a  man's  caprice  for  a 
woman  whom  he  would  have  made  his  mistress  if  he  could, 
and  only  made  his  wife  because  iie  could  by  no  other  means 
possess  her,  can  not  be  doubted. 

Nothing  first  could  be  happier  than  Marian  Hawkwood — 
for  she  mistook,  naturally  enough,  the  fierce  and  violent  passion 


AN    ILL-FATED    UNION.  135 

of  her  young  husband  for  genuine  and  veritable  love  ;  and,  in 
deed,  after  satiety  and  possession  had  long  dulled  the  ardor  of 
this  passion,  circumstances  for  a  long  time  conspired  to  keep 
up  the  illusion  in  the  mind  of  Marian.  The  hurried  and  change 
ful  life  which  they  led ;  the  very  large  portion  of  their  time 
which  was  passed,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  public  ;  the  gratified 
vanity  of  her  husband  at  the  admiration  which  she  excited 
everywhere,  and  which  delighted  his  vain  and  fickle  tempera 
ment  long  after  he  had  ceased  himself  to  care  for  her,  all  tended 
to  delay  the  fatal  discovery,  which  it  was  clear  that  she  must 
one  day  make,  that  she  was  loved  no  longer. 

At  first,  as  she  perceived  that  his  attentions  were  declining, 
that  he  no  longer  hurried  homeward  with  eager  haste,  his  duty 
in  the  camp  or  in  the  court  accomplished,  that  the  revel  or  the 
dice  detained  him,  she  threw  the  blame  on  the  unsettled  times, 
on  the  demoralizing  influence  of  civil  warfare,  and  wild  compa 
ny,  and  the  want  of  a  permanent  and  happy  home.  She  prayed, 
and  believed  that  with  the  war  these  things,  which  were  con 
verting  fast  her  life  into  one  scene  of  sorrow,  would  come  to  an 
end,  and  that  shortly. 

But  neither  did  the  war,  nor  the  sorrows  which  she  attributed 
to  that  war,  seem  likely  to  be  brought  to  any  speedy  or  even 
favorable  termination. 

No  children  had  blessed  that  ill-fated  union,  and  Marian, 
when  she  did  not,  in  obedience  to  the  order  of  her  husband,  go 
into  the  court  gayeties,  such  as  they  were  at  that  time,  was 
almost  entirely  alone. 

Alone  she  brooded  in  despondency,  almost  in  despair,  over 
her  hapless  present  life,  and  almost  hopeless  future.  Write  to 
her  sister  of  her  griefs  she  could  not ;  where  was  the  use  of 
torturing  that  worn  heart  with  other  sorrows,  when  she  must 
needs  have  enough  sorrow  of  her  own. 

Abroad  she  was  subject  to  the  twofold  agony  of  witnessing 


136  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

the  bold  and  open  faithlessness  of  her  husband,  his  infamous 
addresses  to  the  wild  and  licentious  be  •  ties,  made,  perhaps, 
wild  and  licentious  by  the  extravagance  of  their  natural  protec 
tors,  and  the  strange  and  corrupting  circumstances  of  the  times 
— and  of  enduring  the  base  solicitations  and  addresses  of  the 
gay  friends  of  her  husband  —  solicitations  and  addresses  which 
she  could  scarce  believe  were  unknown  to  him,  who,  most  of 
all  men,  should  have  resented  and  avenged  them. 

Thus  year  by  year  dragged  on,  until  Marian,  thoroughly  con 
vinced  of  her  husband's  infidelity  and  baseness,  which,  indeed, 
he  scarce  now  affected  to  conceal,  was  the  most  miserable  of 
her  sex. 

All  her  high  spirits  had  taken  to  themselves  wings,  and  flown 
away  —  all  her  wild  daring  elasticity  of  character — tameless 
gayety,  which  was  so  beautiful  of  old — her  strong  impulsive 
frankness — were  broken,  gone,  obliterated.  She  had  become 
a  quiet,  sad,  heart-broken,  meditative  creature.  Yet  she  re 
pined  not  ever — nor  approached  him — nor  gave  way  to  sad 
ness  in  his  presence — but  strode,  poor  wretch,  to  put  on  a  sem 
blance  of  the  manners  which  he  had  once  seemed  to  love,  and 
her  pale  lips  still  wore  a  sickly  smile  as  he  drew  near,  and  a 
wild  cheerfulness  would  animate  her  for  a  moment;  if,  by 
chance,  he  spoke  kindly,  a  hope  would  arise  within  her  that  he 
might  still  be  reclaimed  to  the  ways  of  virtue  and  of  love. 

But  still  the  hope  was  deferred,  and  her  heart  grew  sick,  and 
utter  gloom  took  possession  of  her ;  so  that  she  now  looked  for 
ward  to  no  other  termination  of  her  sorrows  than  the  grave,  and 
to  that  she  indeed  looked  forward,  at  what  time  it  should  seem 
good  to  Him  to  send  it,  who  orders  all  things,  and  all  wisely. 


A    PROFLIGATE    HUSBAND.  137 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THUS  then  had  the  days  passed  with  Marian  during  those 
years  of  which  her  sister  knew  so  little,  each  day  sadder  and 
bearing  less  of  hope  than  the  last.  She  had  heard  of  her 
mother's  death,  that  mother  whom  she  had  once  so  cherished, 
whose  memory  was  still  so  dear  to  her — yet  had  those  gloomy 
tidings  brought  no  increase  to  the  unhappy  wife's  cold  sadness. 
No  !  so  completely  had  the  hardening  touch  of  despair  petrified 
all  her  feelings,  that  she  now  felt  that  nothing  could  increase  or 
diminish  the  burden  under  which  she  labored.  If  she  thought 
of  the  dead  at  all,  it  was  to  envy,  not  weep  —  it  was  to  clasp 
her  hands,  and  turn  her  eyes  up  to  heaven,  and  to  cry — "  Bles 
sed  are  the  dead,  who  die  in  the  Lord  ;  even  so  saith  the  Spir 
it  ;  for  they  rest  from  their  labors  !"  And  worse  every  day, 
and  more  vicious  —  ay!  and  more  loathsome  arid  more  cruel  in 
his  vices,  did  Ernest  de  Vaux  show  himself.  Alas  !  the  career 
of  virtue  is  as  it  were  on  a  road  up  a  steep  mountain's  side. 
There  is  no  halting  on  the  way,  no  standing  still — no  power 
of  remaining  where  you  are.  Upward  or  downward,  you  must 
on,  and  on  for  ever !  Upward  with  conscientious  hopes 
and  earnest  struggles  and  energetical  resolves  to  virtue,  and  to 
honor,  and  to  peace  —  or  downward,  with  headlong  speed,  to 
crime,  and  agony,  and  ruin,  arid  that  perdition  which  shall  not 
end  when  all  things  else  have  reached  their  termination.  Alas ! 
I  say — alas !  for  this  latter  was  the  path  in  which  the  steps  of 
De  Vaux  were  hurrying,  and  toward  this  termination. 

From  gentlemanly  vice,  as  it  is  falsely  called,  and  those  ex 
travagances  or  excesses  rather,  of  which  men,  deemed  by  the 
world  honorable,  may  be  guilty  without  losing  caste,  Ernest 

12* 


138  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

began  now  to  degenerate  into  low  profligacy,  vulgar  habitual 
debauchery  !  His  noble  features  and  fine  form  had  already  be 
gun  to  display  the  symptoms  of  habitual  intemperance  ;  his 
courtly  manners  and  air,  once  so  noble,  had  deteriorated  sadly; 
his  temper,  equable  and  mild,  and  at  the  least  in  outward  show 
so  kindly,  had  become  harsh,  and  querulous,  uneven,  and  at 
times  violent  and  brutal. 

Yet  Marian  still  clung  to  him,  faithful  in  weal  and  wo,  in 
wealth  as  in  poverty — for  at  times,  in  the  changes  and  chances 
of  the  civil  war,  they  had  in  truth  undergone  much  hardship  — 
she  was  still  the  unchanged,  unrepining,  fond  consoler — but 
alas  !  how  cruelly,  and  how  often  were  her  sweet  consolations 
cast  back  upon  her,  her  kind  and  affectionate  advances  met  with 
harsh  words,  and  bitter  menaces  —  and  once  !  yes,  once,  when 
the  mad  demon  of  intoxication  was  all-powerful  within  him  — 
yes  !  once  with  a  blow- 

It  was  the  fifth  year  of  the  civil  war,  and  though  many  fierce 
and  sanguinary  fields  had  been  fought,  many  towns  taken,  many 
halls  and  manor-houses  stormed  and  defended,  much  generous, 
noble  blood  prodigally  wasted,  neither  side  yet  had  gained  any 
thing  of  real  or  permanent  advantage.  It  was  the  fifth  year  of 
the  civil  war,  and  the  marquis  of  Newcastle,  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  and  gallant  noblemen  of  the  day,  was  holding 
York  for  the  king,  though  besieged  by  an  overwhelming  force, 
by  the  united  forces  of  the  English  puritans  and  independents, 
under  Lord  Fairfax  and  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  the  Scotch  cove 
nanters,  under  David  Leslie,  and  many  of  the  protestant  lords 
of  the  sister-kingdom. 

The  siege  had  indeed  lasted  some  time,  but  although  those 
within  the  city  were  beginning  to  look  eagerly  for  the  relief 
which  was  expected  daily  from  Prince  Rupert,  they  were  not 
as  yet  straitened  for  provision,  or  dispirited.  And  here  in  the 
midst  of  present  apprehension,  and  perhaps  soon  to  be  in  the 


A    NEGLECTED   WIFE.  139 

midst  of  peril,  here  in  the  very  city,  wherein  she  had  passed 
those  few  bright  days,  the  brightest  and  the  happiest  of  her 
life,  alas  !  that  they  should  have  led  to  consequences  so  cruelly 
disastrous — here,  in  a  poor,  mean  lodging  in  a  small,  narrow 
street,  nigh  Stonegate,  dwelt  the  once  bright  and  happy  Marian. 

It  was  night,  and  although  summer-time,  the  air  was  exceed 
ing  damp  and  chilling.  It  was  night,  dead  night,  and  quite 
dark,  for  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  skies  were  so  cloudy  that 
the  faint  glimmer  of  the  stars  failed  to  pierce  their  thick 
folds.  There  were  no  sounds  abroad  in  the  beleaguered  city 
but  the  distant  call  from  hour  to  hour  of  the  answered  sentinel, 
and  the  occasional  tramp  and  clash  of  arms,  as  the  grand  rounds 
passed  through  the  streets  to  visit  the  outposts,  or  the  relief 
parties  marched  toward  the  walls. 

At  this  dead  hour  of  the  night,  in  a  small,  wretched  parlor, 
scantily  furnished  with  a  few  common  wooden  chairs,  a  coarse 
oak  table,  on  which  stood  a  brazen  lamp  diffusing  a  pale,  un 
certain  light  through  the  low-roofed  apartment,  and  sufficing 
barely  to  show  the  extreme  poverty  and  extreme  cleanliness  of 
that  abode  of  high-born  beauty,  sat  Marian,  Lady  de  Vaux, 
plainly  attired,  and  in  nowise  becomingly  to  her  high  station, 
pale,  wan,  and  thin,  and  careworn,  and  no  more  like  to  the  Ma 
rian  Hawkwood  of  old  days  than  the  poor  disembodied  ghost  to 
the  fair  form  it  once  inhabited. 

The  floor  of  the  wretched  room  was  neatly  sanded,  for  it  was 
carpetless,  and  no  curtains  veiled  the  small  latticed  casements 
— the  walls  were  hung  with  defensive  armor  and  a  few  weap 
ons,  two  or  three  cloaks  and  feathered  hats,  disposed  with  a 
sad  attempt  at  symmetrical  arrangement  and  decoration — four 
or  five  books,  some  paper  and  materials  for  writing,  and  an  old 
lute  lay  on  the  table  by  which  Marian  was  sitting,  and  on  an 
other  smaller  board  at  a  little  distance,  neatly  arranged  with  a 
clean  white  cloth,  stood  a  loaf  of  bread,  the  remnants,  now  very 


140  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

low  reduced,  of  a  sirloin,  and  a  half  bottle  of  red  wine — the 
supper  prepared  by  the  hapless  wife,  herself  fasting  and  hun 
gered,. for  the  base  recreant  husband. 

An  open  Bible  lay  before  Marian  on  the  board,  but  though 
her  eyes  rested  on  the  blessed  promises,  and  her  hands,  at 
times,  as  if  mechanically,  turned  its  pages,  her  mind  was  far 
away,  suspended  on  every  distant  sound  that  rose  from  the  de 
serted  streets,  starting  at  every  passing  footstep,  with  a  strange 
mixture  as  it  seemed  of  eager  expectation  and  wild  fear. 

At  length  a  quick,  strong,  heavy  tread  came  up  the  street, 
and  paused  under  the  window. 

"  It  is  he,"  she  said,  listening  intently,  with  a  deep  crimson 
flush  rising  to  her  whole  face,  but  receding  rapidly,  and  leaving 
only  two  round  hectic  spots  high  up  on  her  cheek-bones. 
"  Thank  God !  it  is  he  at  last !"  and  she  arose  and  trimmed  the 
lamp,  and  drew  the  little  table  forward  with  the  preparation  for 
his  supper — but,  as  the  door  below  yielded  to  the  pass-key 
which  he  carried,  she  started  and  turned  white  as  ashes  ;  for 
the  sound  of  a  second  step  reached  her  ears,  and  the  soft  ca 
dence  of  a  female  voice.  She  paused,  with  her  soul  intent 
upon  the  sound,  and  as  they  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  more 
and  more  distinct — 

"  My  God !"  she  said  to  herself,  in  a  low,  choked  whisper, 
clasping  her  hands  together,  as  if  in  mortal  anguish,  "  my  God ! 
it  can  not  be  !" 

But  it  was  —  it  was,  as  she  dreaded,  as  she  would  not  be 
lieve  !  Shame  on  the  dastard  villain !  it  was  true  ! 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Ernest  de  Vaux  entered, 
with  a  tall  and  exceedingly  handsome  woman  leaning  upon  his 
arm,  whom  Marian  recognised  the  very  moment  their  eyes  met, 
for  the  Lady  Agnes  Trevor,  of  whose  bold  and  shameless  con 
duct  with  her  husband  she  had  long  heard,  though  she  strove 
to  close  her  ears  to  them,  a  thousand  cruel  rumors.  This  last 


THE    WIFE    AND    THE    MISTRESS.  141 

worst  outrage,  however,  was  not  without  its  effect;  even  the 
worm,  when  trodden  under  foot,  will,  it  is  said,  rise  up  against 
its  torturer  ;  and  even  her  base  husband  was  astonished  at  the 
superb  and  stately  majesty  with  which  the  wronged  and  heart 
broken  woman  drew  herself  up,  as  they  entered — at  the  flash  of 
grand  indignation  which  lightened  from  every  speaking  fea 
ture  ;  if  he  had  calculated  that  her  spirit  was  so  utterly  cowed 
and  broken,  that  she  would  endure  everything  in  silence,  mad 
ly  had  he  erred,  and  tremendously  was  he  now  undeceived. 

Even  the  guilty  woman  who  accompanied  him,  started  back 
and  in  dismay  ;  it  would  appear  even  that  she  had  not  known 
before  whither  he  was  conducting  her,  for  she  shrank  back 
aghast,  and  clung  to  his  arm  yet  closer  than  before,  as  she 
asked  in  a  tremulous  and  agitated  tone,  "  Who  is  this  ?  who  is 
this  lady,  Ernest?" 

"  It  is  his  wife,  madam !"  replied  Marian,  taking  a  forward 
step  ;  "  his  wedded  wife,  for  whom  it  is  rather  to  ask,  who  you 
are,  that  intrude  thus  upon  her,  at  this  untimely  hour  ?" 

"  It  is  my  wife,  Agnes,"  answered  De  Vaux  at  the  same 
moment,  "  my  wife,  who  will  be  happy  to  extend  her  hospitali 
ty  to  you,  until  these  most  unhappy  jars  are  ended,  and  you  rec 
onciled  to  my  lord ;  Marian,  it  is  the  Lady  Agnes  Trevor,  who 
asks  your  welcome  ;  assure  her — " 

"  I  do  assure  her,"  replied  Marian,  haughtily,  "  that  she  is 
perfectly,  fully  welcome  to  enjoy  all  the  comforts,  all  the  hospi 
talities  which  this  roof  has  to  offer — this  roof — " 

"  Why,  that  is  well,"  replied  her  husband,  with  a  sneering 
smile  ;  "  I  told  you,  Agnes,  she  would  be  very  glad  to  receive 
you  ;  she  is  a  sweet,  mild,  patient  little  creature,  this  pretty  wife 
of  mine  !" 

"  This  roof,"  continued  Marian,  "  which,  from  this  hour,  shall 
never  cover  my  head  any  more." 

"  Heyday  !  heyday  !  what  is  all  this  ?  what  does  this  mean  ?" 


142  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

"  It  means,  simply,  that  hitherto  I  have  borne  much,  have 
borne  all — but  infamy.  And  infamy  I  will  bear  never.  Fare 
you  well,  sir  ;  may  you  repent,  I  say — may  you  repent,  I  say, 
and  ere  it  be  too  late  ;  -and  may  you?  she  added,  turning  to  the 
frail  beauty,  who  trembled  in  her  presence,  "  may  you  never 
know  the  agonies  which  you  have  heaped  upon  my  soul !" 

And  she  passed  by  them,  with  a  movement  so  impetuously 
rapid,  that  she  was  out  of  the  door  before  Ernest,  to  whom 
Agnes  Trevor  was  clinging  still  in  mortal  terror,  could  inter 
pose  to  arrest  her  flight.  But  recovering  himself,  instantly  he 
darted  after  and  caught  her  by  her  dress,  and  would  have 
dragged  her  back  into  the  room,  but  she  laid  hold  of  the  balus 
trades  of  the  staircase,  and  clung  to  them  so  strongly,  that  he 
could  not  move  her. 

"  Do  you  so  little  know  me,  Marian,"  he  exclaimed  furiously, 
"  as  to  imagine  that  I  would  suffer  my  wife  to  go  forth  alone,  a 
mark  for  evil  tongues,  at  such  an  hour  as  this  ?  Back,  Madam 
Marian  !  back  to  your  chamber,  or  you  will  force  me  to  do  that 
which  I  shall  be  sorry  for  !" 

"  Sorry  for !"  answered  Marian,  with  calm  scorn,  "  you  sor 
ry  for  aught  of  injury  to  me  !  and  do  you,  sir,  so  little  know  me, 
as  to  imagine  that  I  would  stay  one  moment  under  the  same 
roof  with  your — " 

"With  my  what? — with  my  what,  madam?"  shouted  De 
Vaux,  "  beware  how  you  answer  !" 

"  Unhand  me,  sir,  unhand  me  !"  she  replied,  "  unhand  me  ; 
for  I  will  go  forth  !" 

"  Answer  me  ;  with  my  what  ?  under  the  same  roof  with  my 
what  ?"  he  again  exclaimed,  shaking  her  violently  by  the  arm. 

"  With  your  harlot,  sir,"  she  replied,  firmly,  and  at  the  same 
moment  two  fearful  sounds  followed  her  words  ;  one  the  most 
fearful  sound,  perhaps,  that  can  be  heard  on  earth  at  all ;  the 
sound  of  a  heavy  blow  dealt  by  a  man  to  a  weak  woman ;  the 


THE    BLOW THE    ESCAPE.  143 

other  a  wild,  piercing  female  shriek  —  a  shriek  that  echoed  far 
and  wide  through  the  midnight  city.  But  it  came  not.  that  aw 
ful  shriek,  from  the  lips  of  Marian. 

No,  no ;  it  was  the  reckless,  the  abandoned,  outcast  wife  of 
Lord  Albert  Trevor,  that  uttered  the  heart-rending  cry,  as  she 
rushed  with  a  frantic  air  out  of  the  chamber,  and  threw  herself 
at  the  feet  of  her  seducer,  and  clasping  his  knees  wildly  with 
one  hand,  caught  with  the  other  his  upraised  right  arm — up 
raised  to  smite  again  her  whom  he  had  sworn  to  love  and  honor. 

"  Me,  me  !"  she  cried,  "  oh,  God — me  !  me  !  not  her — strike 
me  —  strike  me,  not  her  !  for  I  deserve  it — deserve  it  all — all 
—  all — me,  as  she  rightly  termed  me;  me,  the  outcast — the 
harlot !" 

And  with  so  powerful  a  grasp,  moved  by  the  ecstasy  of  re 
morse  and  frenzy,  did  the  frail  creature  restrain  the  ruffian's 
fury,  that  he  was  forced  to  stoop  down  and  exert  some  power  to 
remove  her.  But  the  moment  Marian  perceived  what  was  pas 
sing,  she  darted  down  the  stairs,  and  through  the  front  door, 
which  she  closed  violently  behind  her,  and  into  the  vacant 
street,  and  fled  with  a  speed  that  soon  set  pursuit  at  defiance. 
That  night  she  slept  at  her  old  uncle's  house  in  the  minster 
yard,  the  following  day  York  was  relieved,  and  the  siege  of  the 
puritans  raised  by  the  fiery  Rupert.  On  the  third  morning  the 
royal  troops  sallied  forth  to  give  battle  to  the  troops  of  Fairfax 
upon  the  fatal  moor  of  Long  Marston,  and  while  the  roar  of 
cannon  was  deafening  the  ears  of  all  for  miles  around  her,  and 
her  bad  husband  was  charging  in  the  maddest  strife,  Marian 
was  hurrying  home  to  die — hurrying  home  to  die  in  the  calm 
shades  of  Wharfdale. 


144  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THUS  things  went  on  in  the  busy  world  abroad,  and  at  home 
in  the  quiet  vale  of  Ingleborough,  until  some  few  days  after  the 
deadly  fight  and  desperate  defeat  at  Long  Marston. 

Autumn  had  corne  again — brown  autumn — and  Annabel, 
now  in  her  garden  tending  her  flowers,  and  listening  to  her 
birds,  and  thinking  of  the  past,  not  with  the  keen  and  piercing 
anguish  of  a  present  sorrow,  but  with  the  mellow  recollection 
of  an  old  regret.  She  stood  beside  the  stream — the  stream 
that  all  unchanged  itself  had  witnessed  such  sad  changes  in  all 
that  was  around  it — close  to  the  spot  where  she  had  talked  so 
long  with  Marian  on  that  eventful  morning,  when  a  quick,  soft 
step  came  behind  her ;  she  turned,  and  Marian  clasped  her ! 

No  words  can  describe  the  feelings  of  the  sisters  as  they 
met ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  many  a  fond  embrace,  and  many 
a  burst  of  tears,  that  Marian  told  her  how,  after  years  of  suf 
ferance,  compelled  at  last  to  fly  from  the  outrageous  cruelty  of 
him,  for  whom  she  had  thrown  up  all  but  honor,  she  now  came 
home — home,  like  the  hunted  hare  to  her  form,  like  the  wound 
ed  bird  to  her  nest — she  now  came  home  to  die.  "  What  could 
it  boot,"  she  said,  "  to  repeat  the  old  and  oft-told  tale,  how  eager 
passion  made  way  for  uncertain  and  oft-interrupted  gleams  of 
fondness  How  a  love  founded  on  no  esteem  or  real  princi 
ples,  melted  like  wax  before  the  fire.  How  inattention  paved 
the  way  for  neglect,  and  infidelity  came  close  behind,  and  open 
profligacy,  and  bold  insult,  and  cool,  maddened  outrage  followed. 
How  the  ardent  lover  became  the  careless  husband,  the  cold 
master,  the  unfeeling  tyrant,  and  at  last  the  brutal  despot." 

Marian  came  home  to  die — the  seeds  of  that  invincible  dis 
ease  were  sown  deep  in  her  bosom ;  her  exquisitely  rounded 
shape  was  angular  and  thin,  emaciated  by  disease,  and  suffer- 


THE    WANDERER    COME    HOME    TO    DIE.  145 

ing,  and  sorrow.  A  burning,  hectic  spot  on  either  cheek  were 
now  the  only  remnants  of  that  once  all-radiant  complexion ; 
her  step  so  slow  and  faltering,  her  breath  drawn  sob  by  sob 
with  actual  agony,  her  quick,  short  cough,  all  told  too  certainly 
the  truth !  Her  faults  were  punished  bitterly  on  earth,  and 
happily  that  punishment  had  worked  its  fitting  end — these 
faults  were  all  repented,  were  all  amended  now.  Perhaps  at 
no  time  of  her  youthful  bloom  had  Marian  been  so  sweet,  so 
truly  lovely,  as  now  when  her  young  days  were  numbered. 

All  the  asperity  and  harshness,  the  angles  as  it  were  of  her 
character,  mellowed  down  into  a  calm  and  unrepining  cheerful 
ness.  And  oh  !  with  what  delicious  tenderness  did  Annabel 
console,  and  pray  with,  and  caress  her — oh!  they  were,  in 
deed,  happy  !  indeed  happy  for  those  last  months,  those  lovely 
sisters.  For  Annabel's  delight  at  seeing  the  dear  Marian  of 
happier  days  once  more  beside  her  in  their  old  chamber,  be 
side  her  in  the  quiet  garden,  beside  her  in  the  pew  of  the  old 
village-church,  had,  for  the  time,  overpowered  her  fears  for  her 
sister's  health,  and  as  is  almost  invariably  the  case  in  that  most 
fatal,  most  insidious  of  disorders,  she  constantly  was  flattered 
with  vain  hopes  that  Marian  was  amending,  that  the  next 
spring  would  see  her  again  well  and  happy.  Vain  hopes  ! 
indeed,  vain  hopes  ;  but  which  of  mortal  hopes  is  other? 

The  cold  mists  of  November  were  on  the  hills  and  in  the 
glens  of  Wharfdale  ;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  last  leaves, 
the  grass  was  sere  and  withered,  the  earth  cheerless,  the  skies 
comfortless,  when,  at  the  same  predestined  window,  the  sisters 
sat  watching  the  last  gleam  of  the  wintry  sun  fade  on  the  distant 
hill-top.  What  was  that  flash  far  up  the  road  ?  That  round 
and  ringing  report  ?  Another !  and  another !  the  evident  re 
ports  of  musketry.  And  lo  !  a  horseman  flying — a  wild  fierce 
troop  pursuing — the  foremost  rides  bareheaded,  but  the  blue 
scarf  that  flutters  in  the  air,  shows  him  a  loyal  cavalier ;  the 

13 


146  THE    RIVAL    SISTERS. 

steel  caps  and  jack-boots  of  the  pursuers,  point  them  out,  evi 
dently,  puritans  ;  there  are  but  twenty  of  them,  and  lo  !  the  fu 
gitive  gains  on  them — Heaven!  he  turns  from  the  highroad  ! 
crosses  the  steep  bridge  at  a  gallop !  he  takes  the  park  gate  at 
a  leap  !  he  cuts  across  the  turf !  and  lo  !  the  dalesmen  and  the 
tenants  have  mustered  to  resist — a  short,  fierce  struggle  !  the 
roundheads  are  beaten  back !  the  fugitive,  now  at  the  very  hall 
doors,  is  preserved.  The  door  flew  open ;  he  staggered  into 
the  well-known  vestibule,  opened  the  parlor-door  with  an  ac 
customed  hand,  reeled  into  the  presence  of  the  sisters  exhausted 
with  fatigue,  pale  from  loss  of  blood,  faint  with  his  mortal 
wounds — yet  he  spoke  out  in  a  clear  voice  :  — 

"  In  time,  in  time,  I  thank  God  !  In  time  to  make  some  rep 
aration — to  ask  pardon,  ere  I  die." 

And  with  these  words,  De  Vaux,  for  it  was  he,  staggered  up 
to  his  injured  wife,  and  dropping  on  his  knees,  cast  his  arms 
around  her  waist,  and  burying  his  head  in  her  lap,  exclaimed 
in  faltering  tones  :  — 

"  Pardon  me,  Marian,  pardon  me,  before  I  die — pardon  me, 
as  you  loved  me  once." 

"  Oh  !  as  I  love  you  now,  dear  Ernest,  fully,  completely, 
gladly  do  I  pardon  you,  and  take  you  to  my  heart,  never  again 
to  part,  my  own  dear  husband." 

"  Groaning,  she  clasped  him  close,  and  in  that  act 
And  agony,  her  happy  spirit  fled." 

Annabel  saw  her  head  fall  on  his  neck,  and  fancying  she  had 
fainted,  ran  to  uplift  her ;  but  ere  she  had  time  to  do  so,  both 
were  beyond  the  reach  of  any  mortal  sorrow.  Nor  did  she, 
the  survivor,  tarry  long  behind  them.  She  faded  like  a  fair 
flower,  and  lies  beside  them  in  the  still  bosom  of  a  common 
tomb.  The  hall  was  tenanted  no  more,  and  soon  fell  into  ruin. 
But  the  wild  hills  of  Wharfdale  must  themselves  pass  away, 
before  the  children  of  the  dalesmen  shall  forget  the  sad  tale  of 
"  The  Rival  Sisters." 


t.  Inbqn; 


OR, 


THE  COURSE  OF  PASSION. 


nf  ling  3mra  tjp 


1088. 


JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IN  the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  stood 
among  the  woody  hills  and  romantic  gorges  which  sweep  south 
wardly  down  from  the  bleak  expanse  of  Dartmoor,  one  of  those 
fine  old  English  halls,  which,  dating  from  the  reign  of  the  last 
of  the  Tudors,  united  so  much  of  modern  comfort  with  so  much 
of  antique  architectural  beauty.  Many  specimens  of  this  style 
of  building  are  still  found  to  be  scattered  throughout  England, 
with  their  broad  terraces,  their  quaintly-sculptured  porticoes, 
their  tall  projecting  oriels,  their  many  stacks  of  richly  decora 
ted  chimneys,  and  their  heraldic  bearings  adorning  every  sa 
lient  point,  grotesquely  carved  in  the  red  freestone,  which  is 
their  most  usual,  as  indeed  their  most  appropriate  material. 
No  one,  however,  existed,  it  is  probable,  at  that  day,  more  per 
fect  in  proportion  to  its  size,  or  more  admirably  suited  to  its 
wild  and  romantic  site,  than  the  manor-house  of  Widecomb- 
Under-Moor,  or,  as  it  was  more  generally  called,  in  its  some 
what,  sequestered  neighborhood, the  House  in  the  Woods.  Even 
at  the  present  time,  that  is  a  very  rural  and  little-frequented  dis 
trict  ;  its  woods  are  more  extensive,  its  moorlands  wilder,  its 

streams  less  often  turned  to  purposes  of  manufacturing  utility, 

13* 


150  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

than  in  any  other  tract  of  the  southern  counties  ;  but  at  the 
time  of  which  I  write,  when  all  England,  was,  comparatively 
speaking,  an  agricultural  country — when  miles  and  miles  of 
forest  existed,  where  there  now  can  scarcely  be  found  acres  — 
when  the  communications  even  between  the  neighboring  coun 
try  towns  were  difficult  and  tedious,  and  those  between  the 
country  and  metropolis  almost  impracticable — the  region  of 
Dartmoor  and  its  surrounding  woodlands  was  less  known  and 
less  frequented,  except  by  its  own  inhabitants,  rude  for  the  most 
part  and  uncultured  as  their  native  hills,  than  the  prairies  of  the 
far  west,  or  the  solitudes  of  the  Rocky  mountains. 

The  few  gentry,  and  lords  of  manors  who  own  estates,  and 
had  their  castellated  or  Elizabethan  dwellings,  scattered  here 
and  there,  at  long  intervals,  among  the  sylvan  scenery  of  that 
lonely  region,  were  for  the  greater  part  little  superior  in  habits, 
in  refinement,  and  in  mental  culture,  to  the  boors  around  them. 
Stanch  hunters  and  hard  drinkers,  up  with  the  lark  and  abed 
before  the  curfew,  loyal  to  their  king,  kind  and  liberal  to  their 
dependants,  and  devout  before  their  God,  they  led  obscure  and 
blameless  lives,  careless  of  the  great  world,  a  rumor  of  which 
rarely  wandered  so  far  as  to  reach  their  ears,  unknown  to  fame, 
yet  neither  useless  nor  unhonored  within  the  sphere  of  their 
humble  influence,  marked  by  few  faults  and  many  unpretending 
virtues. 

To  this  general  rule,  however,  the  lords  of  Widecomb  manor 
had  long  been  an  exception.  Endowed  with  larger  territorial 
possessions  than  most  of  their  neighbors,  connected  with  many 
of  the  noblest  families  of  the  realm,  the  St.  Aubyns  of  Wide- 
comb  manor  had,  for  several  generations,  held  themselves  high 
above  the  squires  of  the  vicinity,  and  the  burghers  of  the  cir 
cumjacent  towns.  Not  confining  themselves  to  the  remote  lim 
its  of  their  rural  possessions,  many  of  them  had  shone  in  the 
court  and  in  the  camp ;  several  had  held  offices  of  trust  and 


ENGLAND    AFTER    THE    RESTORATION.  151 

honor  under  Elizabeth  and  her  successor ;  and  when,  in  the 
reign  of  the  unfortunate  Charles,  the  troubles  between  the  king 
and  his  parliament  broke  out  at  length  into  open  war,  the  St. 
Aubyn  of  that  day,  like  many  another  gallant  gentleman,  emp 
tied  his  patrimonial  coffers  to  replenish  the  exhausted  treasury ; 
and  melted  his  old  plate  and  felled  his  older  oaks,  in  order  to 
support  the  king's  cause  in  the  field,  at  the  head  of  his  own 
regiment  of  horse. 

Thence,  when  the  good  cause  succumbed  for  a  time,  and 
democratic  license,  hardly  restrained  by  puritanic  rigor,  strode 
rampant  over  the  prerogative  of  England's  crown,  and  the  lib 
erties  of  England's  people,  fines,  sequestrations,  confiscations, 
fell  heavily  on  the  confirmed  malignancy,  as  it  was  then  termed, 
of  the  lord  of  Widecomb  ;  and  he  might  well  esteem  himself 
fortunate,  that  he  escaped  beyond  the  seas  with  his  head  upon 
his  shoulders,  although  he  certainly  had  not  where  to  lay  it. 

Returning  at  the  restoration  with  the  second  Charles,  more 
fortunate  than  many  of  his  friends,  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn  recov 
ered  a  considerable  portion  of  his  demesnes,  which,  though  se 
questrated,  had  not  been  sold,  and  with  these  the  old  mansion, 
now,  alas !  all  too  grand  and  stately  for  the  diminished  reve 
nues  of  its  owner,  and  the  shrunken  estates  which  it  over 
looked. 

It  would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  too  late  even  then,  for  pru 
dence  and  economy,  joined  to  a  resolute  will  and  energetic  pur 
pose,  to  retrieve  the  shaken  fortunes  of  the  house  ;  but  having 
recovered  peace  and  a  settled  government,  the  people  and  the 
court  of  England  appear  simultaneously  to  have  lost  their 
senses.  The  overstrained  and  somewhat  hypocritical  morality 
of  the  protectorate  was  succeeded  by  the  wildest  license,  the 
most  extravagant  debauchery  ;  and  in  the  orgies  which  followed 
their  restoration  to  their  patrimonial  honors,  too  many  of  the 
gallant  cavaliers  discreditably  squandered  the  last  remnants  of 


152  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

fortunes  which  had  been  half  ruined  in  a  cause  so  noble  and 
so  holy. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn.  The  brave  and 
generous  soldier  of  the  first  Charles  sank  into  the  selfish,  dis 
sipated  roysterer,  under  his  unworthy  successor.  He  never 
visited  again  the  beautiful  oak-woods  and  sparkling  waters  of 
his  native  place,  but  frittered  away  a  frivolous  and  useless  life 
among  the  orgies  of  Alsatia  and  the  revels  of  Whitehall ;  and 
died,  unfriended,  and  almost  alone,  leaving  an  only  son,  who 
had  scarce  seen  his  father,  the  heir  to  his  impoverished  fortunes 
and  little  honored  name. 

His  son,  who  was  born  before  the  commencement  of  the 
troubles,  of  a  lady  highly  bred,  and  endowed  as  highly,  who 
died  —  as  the  highly  endowed  die  but  too  often — in  the  first 
prime  of  womanhood,  was  already  a  man  when  the  restoration 
brought  his  father  back  to  his  native  land,  though  not  to  his 
patrimonial  estates  or  his  paternal  duties. 

Miles  St.  Aubyn,  the  younger,  had  been  educated  during  the 
period  of  the  civil  war,  and  during  the  protracted  absence  of 
his  father,  by  a  distant  maternal  relative,  whose  neutrality  and 
humble  position  alike  protected  him  from  persecution  by  either 
of  the  hostile  parties.  He  grew  up,  like  his  race,  strong,  ac 
tive,  bold,  and  gallant ;  and  if  he  had  not  received  much  of 
that  peculiar  nurture  which  renders  men  graceful  and  courtly- 
mannered,  almost  from  their  cradles,  he  was  at  least  educated 
under  the  influence  of  those  traditional  principles  which  make 
them  at  the  bottom,  even  if  they  lack  something  of  external 
polish,  high-souled  and  honorable  gentlemen. 

After  the  restoration  he  was  sent  abroad,  as  was  the  habit 
of  the  day,  to  push  his  fortunes  with  his  sword  in  the  Nether 
lands,  then,  as  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  the  chosen  battle-ground 
of  nations.  There  he  served  many  years,  if  not  with  high  dis 
tinction,  at  least  with  credit  to  his  name  ;  and  if  he  did  not 


SIR    MILES    ST.    AUBYN.  153 

win  high  fortune  with  his  sword — and  indeed  the  day  for  such 
winnings  had  already  passed  in  Europe — he  at  least  enjoyed 
the  advantage  of  mingling,  during  his  adventurous  career,  with 
the  great,  the  noble,  and  the  famous  of  the  age.  When,  on  his 
return  to  his  native  land  after  his  father's  death,  he  turned  his 
sword  into  a  ploughshare,  and  sought  repose  among  the  old 
staghorned  oaks  at  Widecomb,  he  was  no  longer  the  enthusi 
astic,  wild,  and  headstrong  youth  of  twenty  years  before  ;  but 
a  grave,  polished,  calm,  accomplished  man,  with  something  of 
Spanish  dignity  and  sternness  engrafted  on  the  frankness  of  his 
English  character,  and  with  the  self-possession  of  one  used 
familiarly  to  courts  and  camps  showing  itself  in  every  word 
and  motion. 

He  was  a  man  moreover  of  worth,  energy,  and  resolution, 
and  sitting  down  peacefully  under  the  shadow  of  his  own  woods, 
he  applied  himself  quietly,  but  with  an  iron  steadiness  of  pur 
pose  that  insured  success,  to  retrieving  in  some  degree  the  for 
tunes  of  his  race. 

Soon  after  he  returned  he  had  taken  unto  himself  a  wife,  not 
perhaps  very  wisely  chosen,  from  a  family  of  descent  prouder 
and  haughtier  even  than  his  own,  and  of  fortunes  if  not  as 
much  impoverished,  at  least  so  greatly  diminished,  as  to  ren 
der  the  lady's  dower  a  matter  merely  nominal.  But  it  was  an 
old  affection  —  a  long  promise,  hallowed  by  love,  and  constan 
cy,  and  honor. 

She  was,  moreover,  a  beautiful  and  charming  creature,  and, 
so  long  as  she  lived,  rendered  the  old  soldier  a  very  proud  and 
very  happy  husband,  and  when  she  died — which,  most  unhap 
pily  for  all  concerned,  was  but  a  few  months  after  giving  birth 
to  an  only  son — left  him  so  comfortless,  and  at  the  same  time 
so  wedded  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  that  he  never  so  much 
as  envisaged  the  idea  of  a  second  marriage. 

This  gentleman  it  was,  who,  many  long  years  after  the  death 


154  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

of  the  gentle  Lady  Alice,  dwelt  in  serene  and  dignified  seclu 
sion  in  the  old  hall,  which  he  had  never  quitted  since  he  be 
came  a  widower  ;  devoting  his  whole  abilities  to  nursing  his 
dilapidated  estates,  and  educating  his  only  son,  whom  he  re 
garded  with  affection  bordering  on  idolatry. 

With  the  last  Miles  St.  Aubyn,  however,  we  shall  have  little 
to  do  henceforth,  for  the  soldier  of  the  Netherlands  had  departed 
so  far  from  the  traditions  of  his  family — the  eldest  son  of  which 
had  for  generations  borne  the  same  name  of  Miles  —  as  to  drop 
that  patrimonial  appellation  in  the  person  of  his  son,  whom  he 
had  caused  to  be  christened  Jasper,  after  a  beloved  friend,  a 
brother  of  the  lady,  afterward  his  wife,  who  had  fallen  by  his 
side  on  a  well-fought  field  in  the  Luxembourg. 

What  was  the  causewhich  induced  the  veteran,  in  other  respects 
so  severe  a  stickler  for  ancient  habitudes,  to  swerve  from  this 
time-honored  custom,  it  would  be  difficult  to  state  ;  some  of  those 
who  knew  him  best,  attributing  it  merely  to  the  desire  of  per 
petuating  the  memory  of  his  best  friend  in  the  person  of  his 
only  child  ;  while  others  ascribed  it  to  a  sort  of  superstitious 
feeling,  which,  attaching  the  continued  decline  of  the  house  to 
the  continual  recurrence  of  the  patronymic,  looked  forward  in 
some  degree  to  a  revival  of  its  honors  with  a  new  name  to  its 
lord. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  cause,  the  consequences  of 
this  deviation  from  old  family  usage,  as  prognosticated  by  the 
dependants  of  Widecomb,  and  the  superstitious  inhabitants  of 
the  neighboring  woods  and  wolds,  were  anything  but  likely  to 
better  the  fortunes  of  the  lords  of  the  manor  ;  for  not  a  few  of 
them  asserted,  with  undoubting  faith,  that  the  last  St.  Aubyn 
had  seen  the  light  of  day,  and  that  in  the  same  generation 
which  had  seen  the  extinction  of  the  old  name  the  old  race 
should  itself  pass  away.  Nor  did  they  lack  some  sage  author 
ity  to  which  they  might  refer  for  confirmation  of  their  dark 


A    TRADITIONAL    PROPHECY.  155 

forebodings  ;  for  there  existed,  living  yet  in  the  mouths  of  men, 
one  of  those  ancient  saws,  which  were  so  common  a  century  or 
two  ago  in  the  rural  districts  of  England,  as  connected  with  the 
fortunes  of  the  old  houses  ;  and  which  were  referred  to  some 
Mother  Shipton,  or  other  equally  infallible  soothsayer  of  the 
county,  whose  dicta  to  the  vulgar  minds  of  the  feudal  tenantry 
were  confirmations  strong  as  proofs  of  Holy  Writ. 

The  prophecy  in  question  was  certainly  exceeding  old  ;  and 
had  been  handed  down  through  many  generations,  by  direct  oral 
tradition,  among  a  race  of  men  wholly  illiterate  and  uneduca 
ted  ;  to  whom  perhaps  alone,  owing  to  the  long  expatriation  of 
the  late  and  present  lords  of  the  manor,  it  was  now  familiar ; 
although  in  past  times  it  had  doubtless  been  accredited  by  the 
family  to  wrhich  it  related. 

It  ran  as  follows,  and,  not  being  deficient  in  a  sort  of  wild 
harmony  and  rugged  solemnity,  produced,  by  no  means  unnat 
urally,  a  powerful  effect  on  the  minds  of  hearers,  when  recited 
in  awe-stricken  tones  and  with  a  bended  brow  beside  some  fee 
bly-glimmering  hearth,  in  the  lulls  of  the  tempest  haply  raving 
without,  among  the  leafless  trees,  under  the  starless  night.  It 
ran  as  follows,  and,  universally  believed  by  the  vassals  of  the 
house,  it  remains  for  us  to  see  how  far  its  predictions  were  con 
firmed  by  events,  and  how  far  it  influenced  or  foretold  the 
course  of  passion,  or  the  course  of  fate  — 

"  While  Miles  sits  master  in  Widecomb  place, 
The  cradle  shall  rock  on  the  oaken  floor, 
And  St.  Aubyn  rule,  where  he  ruled  of  yore. 

"  But  when  Miles  departs  from  the  olden  race, 
The  cradle  shall  rock  by  the  hearth  no  more, 
Nor  St.  Aubyn  rule,  where  he  ruled  of  yore." 

Thus  far  it  has  been  necessary  for  us  to  tread  back  the  path 
of  departed  generations,  and  to  retrace  the  fortunes  of  the  Wide- 


156  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

comb  family,  inasmuch  as  many  of  the  events,  which  we  shall 
have  to  narrate  hereafter,  and  very  much  of  the  character  of 
the  principal  personage,  to  whom  our  tale  relates,  have  a  direct 
relation  to  these  precedents,  and  would  have  been  to  a  certain 
degree  incomprehensible  but  for  this  retrogression.  If  it  ob 
tain  no  other  end,  it  will  serve  at  least  to  explain  how,  amid 
scenes  so  rural  and  sequestered,  and  dwelling  almost  in  soli 
tude,  among  neighbors  so  rugged  and  uncivilized,  there  should 
have  been  found  a  family,  deprived  of  all  advantages  of  inter 
communication  with  equals  or  superiors  in  intellect  or  demean 
or,  and  even  unassisted  by  the  humanizing  influence  of  familiar 
female  society,  which  had  yet  maintained,  as  if  traditionally,  all 
the  principles,  all  the  ideas,  and  all  the  habitudes  of  the  bright 
est  schools  of  knightly  courtesy  and  gentlemanly  bearing,  all 
the  graces  and  easy  dignity  of  courts,  among  the  remote  soli 
tudes  of  the  country. 

At  the  time  when  our  narrative  commences,  the  soldier  of 
the  Netherlands,  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn — for  though  he  cared 
not  to  bear  a  foreign  title,  he  had  been  stricken  a  knight  ban 
neret  on  a  bloody  battle-field  of  Flanders — had  fallen  long  into 
the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf;  and  though  his  cheek  was  still  ruddy 
as  a  winter  pippin,  his  eye  bright  and  clear,  and  his  foot  firm 
as  ever,  his  hair  was  as  white  as  the  drifted  snow  ;  his  arm  had 
lost  its  nervous  power ;  and  if  his  mind  was  still  sane,  and  his 
body  sound,  he  was  now  more  addicted  to  sit  beside  the  glow 
ing  hearth  in  winter,  or  to  bask  in  the  summer  sunshine,  poring 
over  some  old  chronicle  or  antique  legend,  than  to  wake  the 
echoes  of  the  oak-woods  with  his  bugle-horn,  or  to  rouse  the 
heathcock  from  the  heathy  moorland  with  his  blythe  springers. 

Not  so,  however,  the  child  of  his  heart,  Jasper.  The  boy 
on  whom  such  anxious  pains  had  been  bestowed,  on  whom 
hopes  so  intense  reposed,  had  reached  his  seventeenth  summer. 
Like  all  his  race,  he  was  unusually  tall,  and  admirably  formed, 


HIS    SEVENTEENTH    SUMMER.  157 

for  both  agility  and  strength..  Never,  from  his  childhood  up 
ward,  having  mingled  with  any  persons  of  vulgar  station  or  un 
polished  demeanor,  he  was,  as  if  by  nature,  graceful  and  easy. 
His  manners,  although  proud,  and  marked  by  something  of  that 
stern  dignity  which  we  have  mentioned  as  a  characteristic  of 
the  father,  but  which  in  one  so  youthful  appeared  strange  and 
out  of  place,  were  ever  those  of  a  high  and  perfect  gentleman. 
His  features  were  marked  with  all  the  ancestral  beauties,  which 
may  be  traced  in  unmixed  races  through  so  many  generations  ; 
and  as  it  was  a  matter  of  notorious  truth,  that  from  the  date  of 
the  conquest,  no  drop  of  Saxon  or  of  Celtic  blood  had  been  in 
fused  into  the  pure  Norman  stream  which  flowed  through  the 
veins  of  the  proud  St.  Aubyns,  it  was  no  marvel  that  after  the 
lapse  of  so  many  ages  the  youthful  Jasper  should  display,  in 
both  face  and  form,  the  characteristic  lines  and  coloring  peculiar 
to  the  noblest  tribe  of  men  that  has  ever  issued  from  the  great 
northern  hive  of  nations.  Accordingly,  he  had  the  rich  dark 
chestnut  hair,  not  curled,  but  waving  in  loose  clusters  ;  the  clear 
gray  eye  ;  the  aquiline  nose  ;  the  keen  and  fiery  look  ;  the  reso 
lute  mouth,  and  the  iron  jaw,  which  in  all  ages  have  belonged 
to  the  descendant  of  the  Northman.  While  the  spare  yet 
sinewy  frame,  the  deep,  round  chest,  thin  flanks,  and  limbs 
long  and  muscular  and  singularly  agile,  were  not  less  perfect 
indications  of  his  blood  than  the  sharp  eagle-like  expression  of 
the  bold  countenance. 

Trained  in  his  early  boyhood  to  all  those  exercises  of  activ 
ity  and  strength,  which  were  in  those  days  held  essential  to 
the  gentleman,  it  needs  not  to  say  that  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  could 
ride,  swim,  fence,  shoot,  run,  leap,  pitch  the  bar,  and  go  through 
every  manoeuvre  of  the  salle  d'armes,  the  tilt-yard,  and  the  ma 
nege,  with  equal  grace  and* power.  Nor  had  his  lighter  accom 
plishments  been  neglected  ;  for  the  age  of  his  father  and  grand 
father,  if  profligate  and  dissolute  even  to  debauchery,  was  still 

14 


158  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

refined  and  polished,  and  to  dance  gracefully,  and  touch  the 
lute  or  sing  tastefully,  was  as  much  expected  from  the  cavalier 
as  to  have  a  firm  foot  in  the  stirrup,  or  a  strong  and  supple 
wrist  with  the  backsword  and  rapier. 

His  mind  had  been  richly  stored  also,  if  not  very  sagely 
trained  and  regulated.  For  Sir  Miles,  in  the  course  of  his  ir 
regular  and  adventurous  life,  had  read  much  more  than  he  had 
meditated  ;  had  picked  up  much  more  of  learning  than  he  had 
of  philosophy ;  and  what  philosophy  he  had  belonged  much 
more  to  the  cold  self-reliance  of  the  camp  than  to  the  sounder 
tenets  of  the  schools. 

While  filling  his  son's  mind,  therefore,  with  much  curious 
lore  of  all  sorts  ;  while  making  him  a  master  of  many  tongues, 
and  laying  before  him  books  of  all  kinds,  the  old  banneret  had 
taken  little  pains — perhaps  he  would  not  have  succeeded  had 
he  taken  more  —  to  point  the  lessons  which  the  books  con 
tained  ;  to  draw  deductions  from  the  facts  which  he  inculcated ; 
or  to  direct  the  course  of  the  young  man's  opinions. 

Self-taught  himself,  or  taught  only  in  the  hard  school  of  ex 
perience,  and  having  himself  arrived  at  sound  principles  of  con 
duct,  he  never  seemed  to  recollect  that  the  boy  would  run 
through  no  such  ordeal,  and  reap  no  such  lessons  ;  nor  did  he 
ever  reflect  that  the  deductions  which  he  had  himself  drawn 
from  certain  facts,  acquired  in  one  way,  and  under  one  set  of 
circumstances,  would  probably  be  entirely  different  from  those 
at  which  another  would  arrive,  when  his  data  were  acquired  in 
a  very  different  manner,  and  under  circumstances  altogether 
diverse  and  dissimilar. 

Thence  it  came  that  Jasper  St.  Aubyn,  at  the  age  of  seven 
teen  years,  was  in  all  qualities  of  bo<ly  thoroughly  trained  and 
disciplined  ;  and  in  all  mental  faculties  perfectly  educated,  but 
entirely  untrained,  uncorrected,  and  unchastened. 

In  manner,  he  was  a  perfect  gentleman  ;  in  body,  he  was  a 


EDUCATION  OF  THE  HEART.  159 

perfect  man ;  in  mind,  he  was  almost  a  perfect  scholar.  And 
what,  our  reader  will  perhaps  inquire,  what  could  he  have  been 
more  ;  or  what  more  could  education  have  effected  in  his  be 
half? 

Much — very  much — good  friend. 

For  as  there  is  an  education  of  the  body,  and  an  education 
of  the  brain,  so  is  there  also  an  education  of  the  heart.  And 
that  is  an  education  which  men  rarely  have  the  faculty  of  im 
parting,  and  which  few  men  ever  have  obtained,  who  have  not 
enjoyed  the  inestimable  advantage  of  female  nurture  during  their 
youth,  as  well  as  their  childhood  ;  unless  they  have  learned  it 
in  the  course  of  painful  years,  from  those  severe  and  bitter 
teachers,  those  chasteners  and  purifiers  of  the  heart — sorrow 
and  suffering,  which  two  constitute  experience. 

This,  then,  was  Ihe  education  in  which  Jasper  St.  Aubyn 
was  altogether  deficient ;  which  Sir  Miles  had  never  so  much 
as  attempted  to  impart  to  him  ;  and  which,  had  he  endeavored, 
he  probably  would  have  failed,  to  bestow. 

We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  boy  was  heartless — boys 
rarely  are  so,  we  might  almost  say  never — nor  that  the  impul 
ses  of  his  heart  were  toward  evil  rather  than  good  ;  far  from  it. 
His  heart,  like  all  young  and  untainted  hearts,  was  full  of  no 
ble  impulses — but  they  were  impulses ;  full  of  fresh  springing 
generous  desires,  of  gracious  sympathies  and  lofty  aspirations 
— but  he  had  not  one  principle — he  never  had  been  taught  to 
question  one  impulse,  before  acting  upon  it  —  he  never  had 
learned  to  check  one  desire,  to  doubt  the  genuineness  of  one 
sympathy,  to  moderate  the  eagerness  of  one  aspiration.  He 
never  had  been  brought  to  suspect  that  there  were  such  virtues 
as  self-control,  or  self-devotion  ;  such  vices  as  selfishness  or 
self-abandonment — in  a  word,  he  never  had  so  much  as  heard, 

«  That  Right  is  right,  and  that  to  follow  Right 
Were  wisdom,  in  the  scorn  of  consepuence" — 


160  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

and  therefore  he  was,  at  the  day  of  which  we  write,  even  what 
he  was  ;  and  thereafter,  what  we  propose  to  show  you. 

At  the  time  when  the,  youthful  heir  had  attained  his  seven 
teenth  year,  the  great  object  of  his  father's  life  was  accom 
plished  ;  the  fortunes  of  the  family  were  so  far  at  least  retrieved, 
that  if  the  St.  Aubyns  no  longer  aspired,  as  of  old,  to  be  the 
first  or  wealthiest  family  of  the  county,  they  were  at  least  able 
to  maintain  the  household  on  that  footing  of  generous  liberality 
and  hospitable  ease  which  has  been  at  all  times  the  pride  and 
passion  of  the  English  country  gentleman. 

For  many  years  Sir  Miles  had  undergone  the  severest  priva 
tions,  and  it  was  only  by  the  endurance  of  actual  poverty  within 
doors,  that  he  was  enabled  to  maintain  that  footing  abroad,  with 
out  which  he  could  scarcely  have  preserved  his  position  in  so 
ciety. 

For  many  years  the  park  had  been  neglected,  the  gardens 
overrun  with  weeds  and  brambles,  the  courts  grass-grown,  and 
the  house  itself  dilapidated,  literally  from  the  impossibility  of 
supporting  domestics  sufficiently  numerous  to  perform  the  ne 
cessary  labors  of  the  estate. 

During  much  of  this  period  it  was  to  the  beasts  of  the  forest, 
the  fowl  of  the  moorland,  and  the  fish  of  the  streams,  that  the 
household  of  Widecomb  had  looked  for  their  support ;  nor  did 
the  table  of  the  banneret  himself  boast  any  liquor  more  generous 
than  that  afforded  by  the  ale-vats  of  March  and  October. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  dark  and  difficult  time,  how 
ever,  the  stout  old  soldier  had  never  suffered  one  particle  of 
that  ceremonial,  which  he  deemed  essential  as  well  to  the  for 
mation  as  the  preservation  of  the  character  of  a  true  gentleman 
to  be  relaxed  or  neglected  by  his  diminished  household. 

Personally,  he  was  at  all  times  clad  point  device  ;  nor  did  he 
ever  fail  in  being  mounted,  himself  and  at  least  one  attendant, 
as  became  a  cavalier  of  honor.  The  hours  of  the  early  dinner, 


RETURNING    PROSPERITY.  161 

and  of  the  more  agreeable  and  social  supper,  were  announced 
duly  by  the  clang  of  trumpets,  even  when  there  were  no  guests 
to  be  summoned,  save  the  old  banneret  and  his  motherless 
child,  and  perhaps  the  only  visiter  for  years  at  Widecomb 
manor,  the  gray-haired  vicar  of  the  village,  who  had  served 
years  before  as  chaplain  of  an  English  regiment  in  the  Low 
Countries,  with  Sir  Miles.  Nor  was  the  pewter  tankard,  con 
taining  at  the  best  but  toast  and  ale,  stirred  with  a  sprig  of  rose 
mary,  handed  around  the  board  with  less  solemnity  than  had  it 
been  a  silver  hanap  mantling  with  the  first  vintages  of  Burgundy 
or  Xeres. 

Thus  it  was  that,  as  Jasper  advanced  gradually  toward  years 
of  manhood,  the  fortunes  of  the  house  improving  in  proportion 
to  his  growth,  seeing  no  alteration  in  the  routine  of  the  house 
hold,  he  scarcely  was  aware  that  any  change  had  taken  place 
in  more  essential  points. 

The  eye  and  ear  of  the  child  had  been  taken  by  the  banners, 
the  trumpets,  and  the  glittering  board,  and  his  fancy  riveted  by 
the  solemnity  and  grave  decorum  which  characterized  the  meals 
partaken  in  the  great  hall ;  and  naturally  enough  he  never  knew 
that  the  pewter  platters  and  tankards  had  been  exchanged,  since 
those  days,  for  plate  of  silver,  and  the  strong  ale  converted  into 
claret  or  canary. 

The  consequence  of  this  was  simply  that  he  found  himself  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  surrounded  by  all  the  means  and  appliances 
of  luxury,  with  servants,  horses,  hounds,  and  falcons  at  his 
command,  the  leading  personage,  beyond  all  comparison,  of  the 
neighborhood,  highly-born,  handsome,  well-bred,  and  accom 
plished.  All  this,  by  the  way,  was  entirely  uncorrected  by  any 
memory  of  past  sufferings  or  sorrows,  either  on  his  own  part  or 
on  that  of  his  family,  or  by  any  knowledge  of  the  privations  and 
exertions  on  the  part  of  Sir  Miles,  by  which  this  present  afflu 
ence  had  been  purchased ;  and  he  became,  naturally  enough, 

14* 


162  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

somewhat  over-confident  in  his  own  qualities,  somewhat  over 
bearing  in  his  manner,  and  not  a  little  intolerant  and  inconsid 
erate  as  to  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  others.  He  then  pre 
sented  in  a  word,  the  not  unusual  picture  of  an  arrogant,  self-suf 
ficient,  proud  and  fiery  youth,  with  many  generous  and  noble 
points,  and  many  high  qualities,  which,  duly  cultivated,  might 
have  rendered  him  a  good,  a  happy,  and  perhaps  even  a  great 
man  ;  but  which,  untrained  as  they  were,  and  suffered  to  run 
up  into  a  rank  and  unpruned  overgrowth,  were  but  too  likely  to 
degenerate  themselves  into  vices,  and  to  render  him  at  some 
future  day  a  tormentor  of  himself,  and  an  opposer  of  others. 

Now,  however,  he  was  a  general  favorite,  for  largely  endowed 
with  animal  spirits,  indulged  in  every  wish  that  his  fancy  could 
form,  never  crossed  in  the  least  particular,  it  was  rarely  that 
his  violent  temper  would  display  itself,  or  his  innate  selfishness 
rise  conspicuous  above  the  superficial  face  of  good-nature  and 
somewhat  careless  affability,  which  he  presented  to  the  general 
observer. 

It  was,  perhaps,  unfortunate  for  Jasper,  no  less  than  for  those 
who  were  in  after-days  connected  with  him,  whether  for  good 
or  evil,  that,  at  this  critical  period  of  his  adolescence,  when  the 
character  of  the  man  is  developed  from  the  accidents  of  boy 
hood,  in  proportion  as  his  increasing  years  and  altered  habits 
and  pursuits  led  him  to  be  more  abroad,  and  cast  him  in  some 
degree  into  the  world,  the  advancing  years  and  growing  infirm 
ities  of  his  father  kept  him  closer  to  the  library  and  the  hall. 

So  that  at  the  very  time  when  his  expanding  mind  and  nas 
cent  passions  most  needed  sage  advice  and  moderate  coercion, 
or  at  least  wary  guidance,  he  was  abandoned  almost  entirely  to 
his  own  direction.  The  first  outbreaks,  therefore,  of  evil  prin 
ciples,  the  germs  of  a  masterful  will,  the  seeds  of  fierce  and 
fiery  passions,  and,  above  all,  the  growing  recklessness  with 
regard  to  the  feelings  and  the  rights  of  others,  which  could 


THE    MANOR-HOUSE    OF    WIDECOMB.  163 

scarcely  have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  shrewd  old  man  had 
he  accompanied  his  son  abroad,  and  which,  if  noticed,  would 
surely  have  been  repressed,  were  allowed  to  increase  hourly 
by  self-indulgence  and  the  want  of  restraint,  unknown  and  un 
suspected  to  the  youth  himself,  for  whom  one  day  they  were 
to  be  the  cause  of  so  many  and  so  bitter  trials. 

But  it  is  now  time  that,  turning  from  this  brief  retrospect  of 
previous  events,  and  this  short  analysis  of  the  early  constitution 
of  the  mind  of  him  whose  singular  career  is  to  form  the  sub 
ject  of  this  narrative,  we  should  introduce  our  reader  to  the 
scene  of  action,  and  to  the  person  whose  adventures  in  after 
life  will  perhaps  excuse  the  space  which  has  necessarily  been 
allotted  to  the  antecedents  of  the  first  marked  event  which  be 
fell  him,  and  from  which  all  the  rest  took  their  rise  in  a  train 
of  connection,  which,  although  difficult  to  trace  by  a  casual  ob 
server,  was  in  reality  close  and  perfect. 

The  manor-house  of  Widecomb,  such  as  it  has  been  slightly 
sketched  above,  stood  on  a  broad  flat  terrace,  paved  with  slabs 
of  red  freestone,  and  adorned  with  a  massive  balustrade  of  the 
same  material,  interspersed  with  grotesque  images  at  the  points 
where  it  was  reached  from  the  esplanade  below,  by  three  or 
four  flights  of  broad  and  easy  steps. 

The  mansion  itself  was  large,  and  singularly  picturesque, 
but  the  beauties  of  the  building  were  as  nothing  to  those  of  the 
scenery  which  it  overlooked. 

It  was  built  on  the  last  and  lowest  slope  of  one  of  those  ro 
mantic  spurs  which  tread  southerly  from  the  wild  and  heathery 
heights  of  Dartmoor.  And  although  the  broad  and  beautifully- 
kept  lawn  was  embosomed  in  a  very  woody  and  sylvan  chase, 
full  of  deep  glens  and  tangled  dingles,  which  was  in  turn  framed 
on  three  sides  by  the  deep  oak-woods,  covering  all  the  rounded 
hills  in  the  rear  of  the  estate,  and  to  the  right  and  left  hand, 
yet  as  the  land  continued  to  fall  toward  the  south  for  many  and 


164  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

many  a  mile,  the  sight  could  range  from  the  oriel  windows  of 
the  great  hall,  and  of  the  fine  old  library,  situated  on  either 
hand  of  the  entrance  and  armory,  over  a  wide  expanse  of  rich 
ly-cultivated  country,  with  more  than  one  navigable  river  wind 
ing  among  the  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  many  a  village  stee 
ple  glittering  among  the  hedgerows,  until  in  the  far  distance  it 
was  bounded  by  a  blue,  hazy  line,  which  seemed  to  melt  into 
the  sky,  but  which  was  in  truth — though  not  to  be  distinguished 
as  such,  unless  by  a  practised  eye — the  British  channel. 

The  hall  itself,  and  even  the  southern  verge  of  the  chase, 
which  bounded  the  estate  in  that  direction,  lay,  however,  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  cultivated  country,  and  was  di 
vided  from  it  by  a  vast  broken  chasm,  with  banks  so  precipi 
tous  and  rocky  that  no  road  had  ever  been  carried  through  it, 
while  its  great  width  had  deterred  men  from  the  idea  of  bridg 
ing  it.  Through  this  strange  and  terrific  gorge  there  rushed 
an  impetuous  and  powerful  torrent,  broken  by  many  falls  and 
rapids,  with  many  a  deep  and  limpid  pool  between  them,  favor 
ite  haunts  of  the  large  salmon  and  sea-trout  which  abounded  in 
its  waters.  This  brook,  for  it  scarcely  can  be  called  a  river, 
although,  after  the  rains  of  autumn  or  the  melting  snows  of 
spring,  it  sent  down  an  immense  volume  of  dark,  rust-colored 
water,  with  a  roar  that  could  be  heard  for  miles,  to  the  distant 
Tamar,  swept  down  the  hills  in  a  series  of  cascades  from  the 
right  hand,  or  western  side  of  the  park,  until  it  reached  the 
brink  of  the  chasm  we  have  described,  lying  at  right  angles  to 
its  former  course,  down  which  it  plunged  into  an  impetuous  fall 
and  rapid  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  and  rushed  thence  east 
erly  away,  walled  on  each  side  by  the  precipitous  rock,  until 
some  five  miles  thence  it  was  crossed  at  a  deep  and  somewhat 
dangerous  ford,  by  the  only  great  road  which  traversed  that 
district,  and  by  which  alone  strangers  could  reach  the  hall  and 
its  beautiful  demesnes. 


WIDECOMB    MANOR.  165 

To  the  westward  or  right  hand  side  of  the  chase  the  country 
was  entirely  wild  and  savage,  covered  with  thick  woods,  inter 
spersed  with  lonely  heaths,  and  intersected  by  hundreds  of 
clear  brawling  rills.  To  the  eastward,  however,  although  much 
broken  by  forest-ground,  there  was  a  wide  range  of  rich  pas 
ture-fields  and  meadows,  divided  by  great  overgrown  hawthorn 
hedges,  each  hedge  almost  a  thicket,  and  penetrated  by  nume 
rous  lanes  and  horse-roads,  buried  between  deep  banks,  and 
overcanopied  by  foliage,  that,  even  at  noonday,  was  almost 
impenetrable  to  the  sunshine. 

Here  and  there  lay  scattered  among  the  fields  and  woods, 
innumerable  farm-houses  and  granges,  the  abodes  of  small  free 
holders,  once  tenants  and  vassals  of  the  great  St.  Aubyns  ;  and, 
at  about  six  miles  from  the  hall,  nestled  in  a  green  valley, 
through  which  ran  a  clear,  bright  trout-stream  to  join  the  turbu 
lent  torrent,  stood  the  little  market-town  of  Widecomb-Under- 
Moor,  from  their  unalienated  property  in  which  the  family  of 
St.  Aubyn  derived  the  most  valuable  portion  of  their  income. 

Over  the  whole  of  this  pleasant  aud  peaceful  tract,  whether 
it  was  still  owned  by  themselves,  or  had  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  free  yeomanry,  the  lords  of  Widecomb  still  held  mano 
rial  rights,  and  the  few  feudal  privileges  which  had  survived  the 
revolution ;  and  through  the  whole  of  it,  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn 
was  regarded  with  unmixed  love  and  veneration,  while  the  boy 
Jasper  was  looked  upon  almost  as  a  son  in  every  family,  though 
some  old  men  would  shake  their  heads  doubtfully,  and  mutter 
sage  but  unregarded  saws  concerning  his  present  disposition 
and  future  prospects  ;  and  some  old  graiidames  would  prognos 
ticate  disasters,  horrors,  and  even  crimes,  as  hanging  over  his 
career,  in  consequence,  perhaps,  of  the  inauspicious  change  in 
the  patronymic  of  his  race. 

They  were  a  happy  and  an  unsophisticated  race  that  inhab 
ited  those  lonely  glens.  Sufficiently  well  provided  to  be  above 


166  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

the  want  of* necessaries,  or  the  fears  of  poverty,  they  were  not 
so  far  removed  from  the  necessity  of  labor  as  to  have  incurred 
vicious  ambitions  —  moderate,  frugal,  and  industrious,  they 
lived  uncorrupted,  and  died  happy  in  their  unlearned  innocence. 

It  was  the  boast  of  the  district,  that  bars  and  locks  were  ap 
pendages  to  doors  entirely  unusual  and  useless  ;  that  the  cage 
of  Widecomb  had  not  held  a  tenant  since  the  days  of  stiff  old 
Oliver ;  and  that  no  deed  of  violence  or  blood  had  ever  tainted 
those  calm  vales  with  horror. 

Alas !  how  soon  was  that  boast  to  be  annulled ;  how  soon 
were  the  details  of  a  dread,  domestic  tragedy,  full  of  dark  hor 
rors,  to  render  the  very  name  of  Widecomb  a  terror,  and  to  in 
vest  the  beauteous  scenery  with  images  of  superstitious  awe 
and  hatred.  But  we  must  not  anticipate,  nor  seek  as  yet  to 
penetrate  the  secrets  of  that  destiny,  which  even  during  the 
morn  of  promising  young  life,  seemed  to  overhang  the  house — 

"  And  hushed  in  grim  repose, 
Expect  its  evening  prey." 


PART   I. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE    PERIL. 

"I  say  beware  — 

That  way  perdition  lies,  the  very  path 
Of  seeming  safety  leading  to  the  abyss." — MS. 

IT  was  as  fair  a  morning  of  July  as  ever  dawned  in  the  blue 
summer  sky ;  the  sun  as  yet  had  risen  but  a  little  way  above 
the  waves  of  fresh  green  foliage  which  formed  the  horizon  of 
the  woodland  scenery  surrounding  Widecomb  manor  ;  and  his 
heat,  which  promised  ere  mid-day  to  become  excessive,  was 
tempered  now  by  the  exhalations  of  the  copious  night-dews, 
and  by  the  cool  breath  of  the  western  breeze,  which  came  down 
through  the  leafy  gorges,  in  long,  soft  swells  from  the  open 
moorland. 

All  nature  was  alive  and  joyous  ;  the  air  was  vocal  with  the 
piping  melody  of  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes,  carolling  in  ev 
ery  brake  and  bosky  dingle  ;  the  smooth,  green  lawn,  before 
the  windows  of  the  old  hall,  was  peopled  with  whole  tribes  of 
fat,  lazy  hares,  limping  about  among  the  dewy  herbage,  fear 
less,  as  it  would  seem,  of  man's  aggression ;  and  to  complete 
the  picture,  above  a  score  of  splendid  peacocks  were  strutting 
to  and  fro  on  the  paved  terraces,  or  perched  upon  the  carved 
stone  balustrades,  displaying  their  gorgeous  plumage  to  the  ear 
ly  sunshine. 

The  shadowy  mists  of  the  first  morning  twilight  had  not  been 


168  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

long  dispersed  from  the  lower  regions,  and  were  suspended 
still  in  the  middle  air  in  broad  fleecy  masses,  though  melting 
rapidly  away  in  the  increasing  warmth  and  brightness  of  the 
day. 

And  still  a  faint  blue  line  hovered  over  the  bed  of  the  long 
rocky  gorge,  which  divided  the  chase  from  the  open  country, 
floating  about  like  the  steam  of  a  seething  caldron,  and  rising 
here  and  there  into  tall  smoke-like  columns,  probably  where 
some  steeper  cataract  of  the  mountain-stream  sent  its  foam  sky 
ward. 

So  early,  indeed,  was  the  hour,  that  had  my  tale  been  recited 
of  these  degenerate  days,  there  would  have  been  no  gentle  eyes 
awake  to  look  upon  the  loveliness  of  newly-awakened  nature. 

In  the  good  days  of  old,  however,  when  daylight  was  still 
deemed  to  be  the  fitting  time  for  labor  and  for  pastime,  and 
night  the  appointed  time  for  natural  and  healthful  sleep,  the 
dawn  was  wont  to  brighten  beheld  by  other  eyes  than  those  of 
clowns  and  milkmaids,  and  the  gay  songs  of  the  matutinal  birds 
were  listened  to  by  ears  that  could  appreciate  their  untaught 
melodies. 

And  now,  just  as  the  stable-clock  was  striking  four,  the  great 
oaken  door  of  the  old  hall  was  thrown  open  with  a  vigorous 
swing  that  made  it  rattle  on  its  hinges,  and  Jasper  St.  Aubyn 
came  bounding  out  into  the  fresh  morning  air,  with  a  foot  as 
elastic  as  that  of  the  mountain  roe,  singing  a  snatch  of  some 
quaint  old  ballad. 

He  was  dressed  simply  in  a  close-fitting  jacket  and  tight  hose 
of  dark-green  cloth,  without  any  lace  or  embroidery,  light  boots 
of  untanned  leather,  and  a  broad-leafed  hat,  with  a  single  eagle's 
feather  thrust  carelessly  through  the  band.  He  wore  neither 
cloak  nor  sword,  though  it  was  a  period  at  which  gentlemen 
rarely  went  abroad  without  both  these,  their  distinctive  attri 
butes  ;  but  in  the  broad  black  belt  which  girt  his  rounded  waist 


THE    AMATEUR    FISHERMAN.  169 

he  carried  a  stout  wood-knife  with  a  buckhorn  hilt ;  and  over 
his  shoulder  there  swung,  from  a  leathern  thong,  a  large  wicker 
fishing-basket. 

Nothing,  indeed,  could  be  simpler  or  less  indicative  of  any 
particular  rank  or  station  in  society  than  young  St.  Aubyn's 
garb,  yet  it  would  have  been  a  very  dull  and  unobservant  eye 
which  should  take  him  for  aught  less  than  a  high-born  and 
high-bred  gentleman. 

His  fine  intellectual  face,  his  bearing  erect  before  heaven, 
the  graceful  ease  of  his  every  motion,  as  he  hurried  down  the 
flagged  steps  of  the  terrace,  and  planted  his  light  foot  on  the 
dewy  greensward,' all  betokened  gentle  birth  and  gentle  asso 
ciations. 

But  he  thought  nothing  of  himself,  nor  cared  for  his  advan 
tages,  acquired  or  natural.  The  long  and  heavy  salmon-rod 
which  he  carried  in  his  right  hand,  in  three  pieces  as  yet  un 
connected,  did  not  more  clearly  indicate  his  purpose  than  the 
quick  marking  glance  which  he  cast  toward  the  half-veiled  sun 
and  hazy  sky,  scanning  the  signs  of  the  weather. 

"  It  will  do,  it  will  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  thinking  as  it  were 
aloud,  "  for  three  or  four  hours  at  least ;  the  sun  will  not  shake 
off  those  vapors  before  eight  o'clock  at  the  earliest,  and  if  he  do 
come  out  then  hot  and  strong,  I  do  not  know  but  the  water  is 
dark  enough  after  the  late  rains  to  serve  my  turn  awhile  longer. 
It  will  blow  up,  too,  I  think  from  the  westward,  and  there  will 
be  a  brisk  curl  on  the  pools.  But  come,  I  must  be  moving,  if  I 
would  reach  Darringford  to  breakfast. 

And  as  he  spoke  he  strode  out  rapidly  across  the  park  toward 
the  deep  chasm  of  the  stream,  crushing  a  thousand  aromatic 
perfumes  from  the  dewy  wild-flowers  with  his  heedless  foot, 
and  thinking  little  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  as  he  hastened  to 
the  scene  of  his  loved  exercise. 

It  was  not  long,  accordingly,  before  he  reached  the  brink  of 

15 


170  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

the  steep  rocky  bank  above  the  stream,  which  he  proposed  to 
fish  that  morning,  and  paused  to  select  the  best  place  for  de 
scending  to  the  water's  edge. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  striking  and  romantic  scene  as  ever  met 
the  eye  of  painter  or  of  poet.  On  the  farther  side  of  the  gorge, 
scarcely  a  hundred  yards  distant,  the  dark  limestone  rocks  rase 
sheer  and  precipitous  from  the  very  brink  of  the  stream,  rifted 
and  broken  into  angular  blocks  and  tall  columnar  masses,  from 
the  clefts  of  which,  wherever  they  could  find  soil  enough  to 
support  their  scanty  growth,  a  few  stunted  oaks  shot  out  almost 
horizontally  with  their  gnarled  arms  and  dark-green  foliage,  and 
here  and  there  the  silvery  bark  and  quivering  tresses  of  the 
birch  relieved  the  monotony  of  color  by  their  gay  brightness. 
Above,  the  cliffs  were  crowned  with  the  beautiful  purple 
heather,  now  in  its  very  glow  of  summer  bloom,  about  which 
were  buzzing  myriads  of  wild  bees  sipping  their  nectar  from  its 
cups  of  amethyst. 

The  hither  side,  though  rough  and  steep  and  broken,  was  not 
in  the  place  where  Jasper  stood  precipitous  ;  indeed,  it  seemed 
as  if  at  some  distant  period  a  sort  of  landslip  had  occurred,  by 
which  the  fall  of  the  rocky  wall  had  been  broken  into  massive 
fragments,  and  hurled  down  in  an  inclined  plane  into  the  bed 
of  the  stream,  on  which  it  had  encroached  with  its  shattered 
blocks  and  rounded  boulders. 

Time,  however,  had  covered  all  this  abrupt  and  broken  slope 
with  a  beautiful  growth  of  oak  and  hazel  coppice,  among  which, 
only  at  distant  intervals,  could  the  dun  weather-beaten  flanks 
of  the  great  stones  be  discovered. 

At  the  base  of  this  descent,  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  perhaps 
below  the  stand  of  the  young  sportsman,  flowed  the  dark  arrowy 
stream  —  a  wild  and  perilous  water.  As  clear  as  crystal,  yet 
as  dark  as  the  brown  cairn-gorm,  it  came  pouring  down  among 
the  broken  rocks  with  a  rapidity  and  force  which  showed  what 


THE    YOUNG    ANGLER.  171 

must  be  its  fury  when  swollen  by  a  storm  among  the  mountains, 
here  breaking  into  wreaths  of  rippling  foam  where  some  unseen 
ledge  chafed  its  current,  there  roaring  and  surging  white  as 
December's  snow  among  the  great  round-headed  rocks,  and 
there  again  wheeling  in  sullen  eddies,  dark  and  deceitful,  round 
and  round  some  deep  reek-brimmed  basin. 

Here  and  there,  indeed,  it  spread  into  wide  shallow  rippling 
rapids,  filling  the  whole  bottom  of  the  ravine  from  side  to  side, 
but  more  generally  it  did  not  occupy  above  a  fourth  part  of  the 
space  below,  leaving  sometimes  on  this  margin,  sometimes  on 
that,  broad  pebbly  banks,  or  slaty  ledges,  affording  an  easy  foot 
ing,  and  a  clear  path  to  the  angler  of  its  troubled  waters. 

After  a  rapid  glance  over  the  well-known  scene,  Jasper 
plunged  Into  the  coppice,  and  following  a  faint  track  worn  by 
the  feet  of  the  wild-deer  in  the  first  instance,  and  widened  by 
his  own  bolder  tread,  soon  reached  the  bottom  of  the  chasm, 
though  not  until  he  had  flushed  from  the  dense  oak  covert  two 
noble  black  cocks  with  their  superb  forked  tails,  and  glossy 
purple-lustred  plumage,  which  soared  away,  crowing  their  bold 
defiance,  over  the  heathery  moorlands. 

Once  at  the  water's  edge,  the  young  man's  tackle  was  speed 
ily  made  ready,  and  in  a  few  minutes  his  long  line  went  whist 
ling  through  the  air,  as  he  wielded  the  powerful  two-handed 
.rod,  as  easily  as  if  it  had  been  a  stripling's  reed ;  and  the  large 
gaudy  peacock-fly  alighted  on  the  wheeling  eddies,  at  the  tail 
of  a  long  arrowy  shoot,  as  gently  as  if  it  had  settled  from  too 
long  a  flight.  Delicately,  deftly,  it  was  made  to  dance  and 
skim  the  clear,  brown  surface,  until  it  had  crossed  the  pool  and 
neared  the  hither  bank  ;  then  again,  obedient  to  the  pliant  wrist, 
it  arose  on  glittering  wing,  circled  half  round  the  angler's  head, 
and  was  sent  thirty  yards  aloof,  straight  as  a  wild  bee's  flight, 
into  a  little  mimic  whirlpool,  scarce  larger  than  the  hat  of  the 
skilful  fisherman,  which  spun  round  and  round  just  below  a 


172  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

gray  ledge  of  limestone.  Scarce  had  it  reached  its  mark  be 
fore  the  water  broke  all  around  it,  and  the  gay  deceit  vanished, 
the  heavy  swirl  of  the  surface,  as  the  break  was  closing,  indi 
cating  the  great  size  of  the  fish  which  had  risen.  Just  as  the 
swirl  was  subsiding,  and  the  forked  tail  of  the  monarch  of  the 
stream  was  half  seen  as  he  descended,  that  indescribable  but 
well-known  turn  of  the  angler's  wrist,  fixed  the  barbed  hook, 
and  taught  the  scaly  victim  the  nature  of  the  prey  he  had  gorged 
so  heedlessly. 

With  a  wild  bound  he  threw  himself  three  feet  out  of  the  wa 
ter,  showing  his  silver  sides,  with  the  sea-lice  yet  clinging  to 
his  scales,  a  fresh  sea-run  fish  of  fifteen,  ay,  eighteen  pounds, 
and  perhaps  over. 

On  his  broad  back  he  strikes  the  water,  but  not  as  he  meant 
the  tightened  line  ;  for  as  he  leaped  the  practised  hand  had 
lowered  the  rod's  tip,  that  it  fell  in  a  loose  bight  below  him. 
Again  !  again  !  again  ;  and  yet  a  fourth  time  he  bounded  into  the 
air  with  desperate  and  vigorous  soubresaults,  like  an  unbroken 
steed  that  would  dismount  his  rider,  lashing  the  eddies  of  the 
dark  stream  into  bright  bubbling  streaks,  and  making  the  heart 
of  his  captor  beat  high  with  anticipation  of  the  desperate  strug 
gle  that  should  follow,  before  the  monster  would  lie  panting  and 
exhausted  on  the  yellow  sand  or  moist  greensward. 

Away !  with  the  rush  of  an  eagle  through  the  air,  he  is  gone 
like  an  arrow  down  the  rapids  —  how  the  reel  rings,  and  the 
line  whistles  from  the  swift-working  wheel ;  he  is  too  swift, 
too  headstrong  to  be  checked  as  yet ;  tenfold  the  strength  of 
that  slender  tackle  might  not  control  him  in  his  first  fiery 
rush. 

But  Jasper,  although  young  in  years,  was  old  in  the  art,  and 
skilful  as  the  craftiest  of  the  gentle  craftsmen.  He  gives  him 
the  butt  of  his  rod  steadily,  trying  the  strength  of  his  tackle 
with  a  delicate  arid  gentle  finger,  giving  him  line  at  every  rush, 


A    DISPLAY    OF    PISCATORY    SKILL.  173 

yet  firmly,  cautiously,  feeling  his  mouth  all  the  while,  and  mod 
erating  his  speed  even  while  he  yields  to  his  fury. 

Meanwhile,  with  the  eye  of  intuition  and  the  nerve -of  iron, 
he  bounds  along  the  difficult  shore,  he  leaps  from  rock  to  rock, 
alighting  on  their  silvery  tops  with  the  firm  agility  of  the  rope- 
dancer,  he  splashes  knee-deep  through  the  slippery  shallows, 
keeping  his  line  ever  taut,  inclining  his  rod  over  his  shoulder, 
bearing  on  his  fish  ever  with  a  killing  pull,  steering  him  clear 
of  every  rock  or  stump  against  which  he  would  fain  smash  the 
tackle,  and  landing  him  at  length  in  a  fine  open  roomy  pool,  at 
the  foot  of  a  long  stretch  of  white  and  foamy  rapids,  down 
which  he  has  just  piloted  him  with  the  eye  of  faith,  and  the 
foot  of  instinct. 

And  now  the  great  salmon  has  turned  sulky ;  like  a  piece  of 
lead  he  has  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  deep  black  pool,  and  lies 
on  the  gravel  bottom  in  the  sullenness  of  despair. 

Jasper  stooped,  gathered  up  in  his  left  hand  a  heavy  pebble, 
and  pitched  it  into  the  pool,  as  nearly  as  he  could  guess  to  the 
whereabout  of  his  game  —  another  —  and  another!  Ah!  that 
last  has  roused  him.  Again  he  throws  himself  clear  out  of 
water,  and  again  foiled  in  his  attempt  to  smash  the  tackle,  dash 
es  away  down  stream  impetuous. 

But  his  strength  is  departing — the  vigor  of  his  rush  is  bro 
ken.  The  angler  gives  him  the  butt  abundantly,  strains  on  him 
with  a  heavier  pull,  yet  ever  yields  a  little  as  he  exerts  his  fail 
ing  powers  ;  see,  his  broad  silver  side  has  thrice  turned  up, 
even  turned  to  the  surface,  and  though  each  time  he  has  recov 
ered  himself,  each  time  it  has  been  with  a  heavier  and  more 
sickly  motion. 

Brave  fellow  !  his  last  race  is  run,  his  last  spring  sprung — 
no  more  shall  he  disport  himself  in  the  bright  reaches  of  the 
Tamar ;  no  more  shall  the  Naiads  wreathe  his  clear  silver 
scales  with  river-greens  and  flowery  rushes. 

15* 


174  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

The  cruel  gaff  is  in  his  side — his  cold  blood  stains  the  ed 
dies  for  a  moment — he  flaps  out  his  death-pang  on  the  hard 
limestone. 

"  Who-whoop  !  a  nineteen-pounder  !" 

Meantime  the  morning  had  worn  onward,  and  ere  the  great 
fish  was  brought  to  the  basket  the  sun  had  soared  clear  above 
the  mist-wreaths,  and  had  risen  so  high  into  the  summer  heav 
en  that  his  slant  rays  poured  down  into  the  gorge  of  the  stream, 
and  lighted  up  the  clear  depths  with  a  lustre  so  transparent  that 
every  pebble  at  the  bottom  might  have  been  discerned,  with  the 
large  fish  here  and  there  floating  mid  depth,  with  their  heads 
up  stream,  their  gills  working  with  a  quick  motion,  and  their 
broad  tails  vibrating  at  short  intervals  slowly  but  powerfully,  as 
they  lay  motionless  in  opposition  to  the  very  strongest  of  the 
swift  current. 

The  breeze  had  died  away,  there  was  no  curl  upon  the  wa 
ter,  and  the  heat  was  oppressive. 

Under  such  circumstances,  to  whip  the  stream  was  little  bet 
ter  than  mere  loss  of  time,  yet,  as  he  hurried  with  a  fleet  foot 
down  the  gorge,  perhaps  with  some  ulterior  object,  beyond  the 
mere  love  of  sport,  Jasper  at  times  cast  his  fly  across  the  stream, 
and  drew  it  neatly,  and,  as  he  thought,  irresistibly  right  over 
the  recusant  fish  ;  but  though  once  or  twice  a  large  lazy  salmon 
would  sail  up  slowly  from  the  depths,  and  almost  touch  the  fly 
with  his  nose,  he  either  sunk  down  slowly  in  disgust,  without 
breaking  the  water,  or  flapped  his  broad  tail  over  the  shining 
fraud  as  if  to  mark  his  contempt. 

It  had  now  got  to  be  near  noon,  for  in  the  ardor  of  his  suc 
cess  the  angler  had  forgotten  all  about  his  intended  breakfast ; 
and,  his  first  fish  captured,  had  contented  himself  with  a  slen 
der  meal  furnished  from  out  his  fishing-basket  and  his  leathern 
bottle. 

Jasper  had  traversed  by  this  time  some  ten  miles  in  length, 


RIVER    SCENERY.  175 

following  the  sinuosities  of  the  stream,  and  had  reached  a  fa 
vorite  pool  at  the  head  of  a  long,  straight,  narrow  trench,  cut 
by  the  waters  themselves  in  the  course  of  time,  through  the 
hard  schistous  rock  which  walls  the  torrent  on  each  hand,  not 
leaving  the  slightest  ledge  or  margin  between  the  rapids  and 
the  precipice. 

Through  this  wild  gorge,  of  some  fifty  yards  in  length,  the 
river  shoots  like  an  arrow  over  a  steep  inclined  plain  of  lime 
stone  rock,  the  surface  of  which  is  polished  by  the  action  of 
the  water,  till  it  is  as  slippery  as  ice,  and  at  the  extremity  leaps 
down  a  sheer  descent  of  some  twelve  feet  into  a  large,  wide 
basin,  surrounded  by  softly  swelling  banks  of  greensward,  and 
a  fair  amphitheatre  of  woodland. 

At  the  upper  end  this  pool  is  so  deep  as  to  be  vulgarly  deemed 
unfathomable  ;  below,  however,  it  expands  yet  wider  into  a 
shallow  rippling  ford,  where  it  is  crossed  by  the  high-road, 
down  stream  of  which  again  there  is  another  long,  sharp-rapid, 
and  another  fall,  over  the  last  steps  of  the  hill ;  after  which  the 
nature  of  the  stream  becomes  changed,  and  it  murmurs  gently 
onward  through  a  green  pastoral  country  unrippled  and  unin 
terrupted. 

Just  in  the  inner  angle  of  the  high-road,  on  the  right  hand  of 
the  stream,  there  stood  an  old-fashioned,  low-browed,  thatch- 
covered,  stone  cottage,  with  a  rude  portico  of  rustic  woodwork 
overrun  with  jasmine  and  virgin-bower,  and  a  pretty  flower- 
garden  sloping  down  in  successive  terraces  to  the  edge  of  the 
basin.  Beside  this,  there  was  no  other  house  in  sight,  unless 
it  were  part  of  the  roof  of  a  mill  which  stood  in  the  low  ground 
on  the  brink  of  the  second  fall,  surrounded  with  a  mass  of  wil 
lows.  But  the  tall  steeple  of  a  country-church  raising  itself 
heavenward  above  the  brow  of  the  hill,  seemed  to  show  that, 
although  concealed  by  the  undulations  of  the  ground,  a  village 
was  hard  at  hand. 


176  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

The  morning  had  changed  a  second  time,  a  hazy  film  had 
crept  up  to  the  zenith,  and  the  sun  was  now  covered  with  a 
pale  golden  veil,  and  a  slight  current  of  air  down  the  gorge  ruf 
fled  the  water. 

It  was  a  capital  pool,  famous  for  being  the  temporary  haunt 
of  the  very  finest  fish,  which  were  wont  to  lay  there  awhile,  as 
if  to  recruit  themselves  after  the  exertion  of  leaping  the  two 
falls  and  stemming  the  double  rapid,  before  attempting  to  ascend 
the  stream  farther. 

Few,  however,  even  of  the  best  and  boldest  fishermen  cared 
to  wet  a  line  in  its  waters,  in  consequence  of  the  supposed  im 
possibility  of  following  a  heavy  fish  through  the  gorge  below  or 
checking  him  at  the  brink  of  the  fall.  It  is  true,  that  throughout 
the  length  of  the  pass,  the  current  was  broken  by  bare,  slippery 
rocks  peering  above  the  waters,  at  intervals,  which  might  be 
cleared  by  an  active  cragsman  ;  and  it  had  been  in  fact  recon 
noitred  by  Jasper  and  others  in  cool  blood,  but  the  result  of  the 
examination  was  that  it  was  deemed  impracticable  as  a  fishing 
ground. 

Thinking,  however,  little  of  striking  a  large  fish,  and  perhaps 
desiring  to  waste  a  little  time  before  scaling  the  banks  and 
emerging  on  the  high  road,  Jasper  threw  a  favorite  fly  of  pea 
cock's  harl  and  gold  tinsel  lightly  across  the  water  ;  and,  almost 
before  he  had  time  to  think,  had  hooked  a  monstrous  fish,  which 
at  the  very  first  leap,  he  set  down  as  weighing  at  least  thirty 
pounds. 

Thereupon  followed  a  splendid  display  of  piscatory'  skill. 
Well  known  that  his  fish  must  be  lost  if  he  once  should  succeed 
in  getting  his  head  down  the  rapid,  Jasper  exerted  every  nerve, 
and  exhausted  every  art  to  humor,  to  meet,  to  restrain,  to  check 
him.  Four  times  the  fish  rushed  for  the  pass,  and  four  times, 
Jasper  met  him  so  stoutly  with  the  butt,  trying  his  tackle  to  the 
very  utmost,  that  he  succeeded  in  forcing  him  from  the  perilous 


THE    FEARFUL    PLUNGE.  177 

spot.  Round  and  round  the  pool  he  had  piloted  him,  and  had 
taken  post  at  length,  hoping  that  the  worst  was  already  over, 
close  to  the  opening  of  the  rocky  chasm. 

And  now,  perhaps  waxing  too  confident,  he  checked  his  fish 
too  sharply.  Stung  into  fury,  the  monster  sprang  five  times  in 
succession  into  the  air,  lashing  the  water  with  his  angry  tail, 
and  then  rushed  like  an  arrow  down  the  chasm. 

He  was  gone — but  Jasper's  blood  was  up,  and  thinking  of 
nothing  but  his  sport,  he  dashed  forward  and  embarked  with  a 
fearless  foot  in  the  terrible  descent. 

Leap  after  leap  he  took  with  beautiful  precision,  alighting 
firm  and  erect  on  the  centre  of  each  slippery  block,  and  bound 
ing  thence  to  the  next  with  unerring  instinct,  guiding  his  fish  the 
while  with  consummate  skill  through  the  intricacies  of  the  pass. 

There  were  now  but  three  more  leaps  to  be  taken  before  he 
would  reach  the  flat  table-rock  above  the  fall,  which  once  at 
tained,  he  would  have  firm  foot-hold  and  a  fair  field.  Already 
he  rejoiced,  triumphant  in  the  success  of  his  bold  attainment, 
and  confident  in  victory,  when  a  shrill  female  shriek  reached 
his  ears,  from  the  pretty  flower-garden ;  caught  by  the  sound 
he  diverted  his  eyes,  just  as  he  leaped,  toward  the  place  whence 
it  came  ;  his  foot  slipped,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  flat  on 
his  back  in  the  swift  stream,  where  it  shot  the  most  furiously 
over  the  glassy  rock.  He  struggled  manfully,  but  in  vain. 
The  smooth,  slippery  surface  afforded  no  purchase  to  his  gri 
ping  fingers,  no  hold  to  his  laboring  feet.  One  fearful,  agoni 
zing  conflict  with  the  wild  waters,  and  he  was  swept  helplessly 
over  the  edge  of  the  fall,  his  head,  as  he  glanced  down  foot 
foremost,  striking  the  rocky  brink  not  without  violence. 

He  was  plunged  into  the  deep  pool,  and  whirled  round  and 
round  by  the  dark  eddies  long  before  he  rose,  but  still,  though 
stunned  and  half  disabled,  he  strove  terribly  to  support  himself, 
but  it  was  all  in  vain. 


178  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

Again  lie  sunk  and  rose  once  more,  and  as  he  rose  that  wild 
shriek  again  reached  his  ears,  and  his  last  glance  fell  upon  a 
female  form  wringing  her  hands  in  terror  on  the  bank,  and  a 
young  man  rushing  down  in  wild  haste  from  the  cottage  on  the 
hill-side. 

He  felt  that  aid  was  at  hand,  and  struck  out  again  for  life  — 
for  dear  life. 

But  the  water  seemed  to  fail  beneath  him. 

A  slight  flash  sprang  across  his  eyes,  his  brain  reeled,  and 
all  was  blackness. 

He  sunk  to  the  bottom,  spurned  it  with  his  feet,  and  rose 
once  more,  but  not  to  the  surface. 

His  quivering  blue  hands  emerged  alone  above  the  relentless 
waters,  grasped  for  a  little  moment  at  empty  space  and  then  dis 
appeared. 

The  circling  ripples  closed  over  him,  and  subsided  into  still 
ness.  *$ 

He  felt,  knew,  suffered  nothing  more. 

His  young,  warm  heart  was  cold  and  lifeless — his  soul  had 
lost  its  consciousness — the  vital  spark  had  faded  into  darkness 
— perhaps  was  quenched  for  ever. 


THE    LOVELY    WATCHER.  179 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE    WAKENING. 

When  first  she  dawned  upon  my  sight, 

She  deemed  a  vision  of  delight.  WORDSWOHTH. 

WHEN  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  opened  his  eyes,  dim  with  the 
struggle  of  returning  consciousness  and  life,  they  met  a  pair  of 
eyes  fixed  with  an  expression  of  the  most  earnest  anxiety  on 
his  own — a  pair  of  eyes,  the  loveliest  into  which  he  ever  had  yet 
gazed,  large,  dark,  unfathomably  deep,  and  soft  withal  and  ten 
der,  as  the  day-dream  of  a  love-sick  poet.  He  could  not  mark 
their  color ;  he  scarce  knew  whether  they  were  mortal  eyes, 
whether  they  were  realities  at  all,  so  sickly  did  his  brain  reel 
and  so  confused  and  wandering  were  his  fancies. 

Then  a  sweet,  low  voice  fell  upon  his  ear,  in  tones  the  gen 
tlest,  yet  the  gladdest,  that  ever  he  had  heard,  exclaiming: — 

"  Oh!  father,  father,  he  lives — he  is  saved." 

But  he  heard,  saw  no  more  ;  for  again  he  relapsed  into  un 
consciousness,  and  felt  nothing  further,  until  he  became  sensi 
ble  of  a  balmy  coolness  on  his  brow,  a  pleasant  flavor  on  his 
parched  lips,  and  a  kindly  glow  creeping  as  it  were  through  all 
his  limbs,  and  gradually  expanding  into  life. 

Again  his  eyes  were  unclosed,  and  again  they  met  the  earn 
est,  hopeful  gaze  of  those  other  eyes,  which  he  now  might  per 
ceive  belonging  to  a  face  so  exquisite,  and  a  form  so  lovely,  as 
to  be  worthy  of  those  great  glorious  wells  of  lustrous  tenderness. 

It  was  a  young  girl  who  bent  over  him,  perhaps  a  few  months 
older  than  himself,  so  beautiful  that  had  she  appeared  suddenly 
even  in  her  simple  garb,  which  seemed  to  announce  her  but  one 
degree  above  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood,  in  the  midst  of 


380  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

the  noblest  and  most  aristocratical  assembly,  she  would  have 
become  on  the  instant  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  the  magnet 
of  all  hearts. 

Of  that  age  when  the  heart,  yet  unsunned  by  passion,  and 
unused  to  strong  emotion,  thrills  sensibly  to  every  feeling  awa 
kened  for  the  first  time  within  it,  and  bounds  at  every  appeal  to 
its  sympathies  ;  when  the  ingenuous  countenance,  unhardened 
by  the  sad  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  untaught  to  conceal  one 
emotion,  reflects  like  a  perfect  mirror  every  gleam  of  sunshine 
that  illuminates,  every  passing  cloud  that  overshadows  its  pure 
and  spotless  surface,  the  maiden  sought  not  to  hide  her  delight, 
as  she  witnessed  the  hue  of  life  return  to  his  pale  cheeks,  and 
the  spark  of  intelligence  relume  his  handsome  features. 

A  bright,  mirthful  glance,  which  told  how  radiant  they  might 
be  in  moments  of  unmingled  bliss,  laughed  for  an  instant  in 
those  deep  blue  eyes,  and  a  soft,  sunny  smile  played  over  her 
warm  lips  ;  but  the  next,  minute,  she  dropped  the  young  man's 
hand,  which  she  had  been  chafing  between  both  her  own,  bu 
ried  her  face  in  her  palms,  and  wept  those  sweet  and  happy 
tears  which  flow  only  from  innocent  hearts,  at  the  call  of  grat 
itude  and  sympathy. 

"  Bless  God,  young  sir,"  said  a  deep,  solemn  voice  at  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  on  which  he  was  lying,  "  that  your  life  is 
spared.  May  it  be  unto  good  ends  !  Yours  was  a  daring  ven 
ture,  and  for  a  trivial  object  against  which  to  stake  an  immortal 
soul.  But,  thanks  to  Him !  you  are  preserved,  snatched  as  it 
were  from  the  gates  of  death ;  and,  though  you  feel  faint  now, 
I  doubt  not — and  your  soul  trembles  as  if  on  the  verge  of  another 
world — you  will  be  well  anon,  and  in  a  little  while  as  strong  as 
ever  in  that  youthful  strength  on  which  you  have  ta'en  such 
pride.  Drink  this,  and  sleep  awhile,  and  you  shall  wake  re 
freshed,  and  as  a  new  man,  from  the  dreamless  slumber  which 
the  draught  shall  give  you.  And  you,  silly  child,"  he  continued, 


THE    ASSURANCE.  181 

turning  toward  the  lovely  girl,  who  had  sunk  forward  on  the 
bed,  so  that  her  fair  tresses  rested  on  the  same  pillow  which 
supported  Jasper's  head,  with  the  big  tears  trickling  silently 
between  her  slender  fingers,  "  dry  up  your  tears  ;  for  the  youth 
shall  live,  and  not  die." 

The  boy's  eyes  had  turned  immediately  to  the  sound  of  the 
speaker's  accents,  and  in  his  weak  state  remained  fixed  on  his 
face  so  long  as  the  sound  continued,  although  his  senses  followed 
the  meaning  but  imperfectly. 

It  was  a  tall,  venerable-looking  old  man  who  spoke,  with 
long  locks,  as  white  as  snow,  falling  down  over  the  straight 
cut  collar  of  his  plain  black  doublet,  and  an  expression  of  the 
highest  intellect,  combined  with  something  which  was  not  mel 
ancholy,  much  less  sadness,  but  which  told  volumes  of  hard 
ships  borne,  and  sorrows  endured,  the  fruits  of  which  were 
piety,  and  gentleness,  and  that  wisdom  which  cometh  not  of 
this  world. 

He  smiled  thoughtfully,  as  he  saw  that  his  words  were  hardly 
comprehended,  and  his  mild  glance  wandered  from  the  pale 
face  of  the  handsome  boy  to  the  fair  head  of  the  young  girl 
bending  over  him,  like  a  white  lily  overcharged  with  rain. 

"  Poor  things,"  he  whispered  softly,  as  if  speaking  to  himself, 
"  to  both  it  is  the  first  experience  of  the  mixed  pain  and  pleas 
ure  of  this  world's  daily  trials.  God  save  them  scathless  to  the 
end !" 

Then  recovering  himself,  as  if  by  a  little  effort,  from  his 
brief  fit  of  musing,  he  held  forth  a  large  glass  goblet  which  was 
in  his  right  hand,  full  of  some  bright  ruby-colored  liquid,  to  the 
lips  of  Jasper,  saying :  — 

"  Drink,  youth,  it  will  give  thee  strength.  Drink,  and  fear 
nothing." 

The  young  man  grasped  the  bright  bowl  with  both  hands, 
16 


182  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

but  even  then  he  had  lacked  strength  to  guide  it  to  his  lips,  had 
not  his  host  still  supported  it. 

The  flavor  was  agreeable,  and  the  coolness  of  the  draught 
was  so  delicious  to  the  feverish  palate  and  parched  tongue  of 
Jasper,  that  he  drained  it  to  the  very  bottom,  and  then,  as  if  ex 
hausted  by  the  effort,  relaxed  his  hold,  and  sunk  back  on  his 
pillow  in  a  state  of  conscious  languor,  exquisitely  soft  and  en 
trancing. 

More  and  more  that  voluptuous  dream-like  trance  overcame 
him,  and  though  his  eyes  were  still  open  he  saw  not  the  things 
that  were  around  him,  but  a  multitude  of  radiant  and  lovely  vis 
ions,  which  came  and  went,  and  returned  again,  in  mystic  evo 
lutions. 

With  a  last  effort  of  his  failing  senses,  half  conscious  of  the 
interest  which  she  took  in  him,  yet  wholly  ignorant  who  or 
what  was  that  gentle  she,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  mas 
tered  one  of  hers  with  gentle  violence,  and  holding  it  impris 
oned  in  his  burning  fingers,  closed  his  swimming  eyes,  and  sunk 
into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 

The  old  man,  who  had  watched  every  symptom  that  appeared 
in  succession  on  his  expressive  face,  saw  that  the  potion  had 
taken  the  desired  effect,  and  drawing  a  short  sigh,  which 
seemed  to  indicate  a  sense  of  relief  from  apprehension,  looked 
toward  the  maiden,  and  addressed  her  in  a  low  voice,  not  so 
much  from  fear  of  wakening  the  sleeper,  as  that  the  voice  of 
affection  is  ever  low  and  gentle. 

"  He  sleeps,  Theresa,  and  will  sleep  until  the  sun  has  sunk 
far  toward  the  west,  and  then  he  will  waken  restored  to  all  his 
youthful  power  and  spirits.  Come,  my  child,  we  may  leave 
him  to  his  slumbers,  he  shall  no  longer  need  a  watcher.  I  will 
go  to  my  study  and  would  have  you  turn  to  your  household  du 
ties.  Scenes  such  as  this  which  you  have  passed  will  call  up 
soft  and  pitiful  fancies  in  the  mind,  but  it  behooves  us  not  over- 


THE    UNCONSCIOUS    JAILER.  183 

much  to  yield  to  them.  This  life  has  too  much  of  stern  and 
dark  reality,  that  we  should  give  the  reins  to  truant  imagination. 
Come,  Theresa." 

The  young  girl  raised  her  head  from  the  pillows,  and  shook 
away  the  long,  fair  curls  from  her  smooth  forehead.  Her  tears 
had  ceased  to  flow,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  her  lip,  as  she 
replied,  pointing  to  her  hand  which  he  held  fast  grasped,  in  his 
unconscious  slumber 

"  See,  father,  I  am  a  prisoner.  I  fear  me  I  can  not  with 
draw  my  hand  without  arousing  him." 

"  Do  not  so,  then,  Theresa ;  to  arouse  him  now,  ere  the  ef 
fects  of  the  potion  have  passed  away,  would  be  dangerous, 
might  be  fatal.  Perchance,  however,  he  will  release  you  when 
he  sleeps  quite  soundly.  If  he  do  so,  I  pray  you,  come  to  me. 
Meantime,  I  leave  you  to  your  own  good  thoughts,  my  own  lit 
tle  girl." 

And  with  these  words,  he  leaned  across  the  narrow  bed,  over 
the  form  of  the  sleeping  youth,  and  kissed  her  fair  white  brow. 

"  Bless  thee,  my  gentle  child.  May  God  in  goodness  bless, 
and  be  about  thee." 

"  Amen  !  dear  father,"  said  the  little  girl,  as  he  ended  ;  and 
in  her  turn  she  pressed  her  soft  and  balmy  lips  to  his  withered 
cheek. 

A  tear,  rare  visitant,  rose  all  unbidden  to  the  parent's  eye  as 
he  turned  to  leave  her,  but  ere  he  reached  the  door,  her  low 
tones  arrested  him,  and  he  came  back  to  her. 

"  Will  you  not  put  my  books  within  reach  of  me,  dear  father  ?" 
she  said.  "  I  can  not  work,  since  the  poor  youth  has  made  my 
left  hand  his  sure  captive,  but  I  would  not  be  altogether  idle, 
and  I  can  read  while  I  watch  him.  Pardon  my  troubling  you, 
who  should  wait  on  you,  not  be  waited  on." 

"  And  do  you  not  wait  on  me  ever,  and  most  neat-handedly, 
dear  child  ?"  returned  her  father,  moving  toward  a  small,  round 


184  JASPER    ST.    ATJBYN. 

table,  on  which  were  scattered  a  few  books,  and  many  imple 
ments  of  feminine  industry.  "  Which  of  these  will  you  have, 
Theresa  ?" 

"  All  of  them,  if  you  please,  dear  father.  The  table  is  not 
heavy,  for  I  can  carry  it  about  where  I  will,  myself,  and  if  you 
will  lift  it  to  me,  I  can  help  myself,  and  cull  the  gems  of  each 
in  turn.  I  am  a  poor  student,  I  fear,  and  love  better,  like  a  lit 
tle  bee,  to  flit  from  flower  to  flower,  drinking  from  every  chal 
ice  its  particular  honey,  than  to  sit  down,  like  the  sloth,  and 
surfeit  me  on  one  tree,  how  green  soever." 

"  There  is  but  little  industry,  I  am  afraid,  Theresa,  if  there  be 
little  sloth  in  your  mode  of  reading.  Such  desultory  studies  are 
wont  to  leave  small  traces  on  the  memory.  I  doubt  me  much 
if  you  long  keep  these  gems  you  speak  of,  which  you  cull  so 
lightly." 

ft  Oh !  but  you  are  mistaken,  father  dear,  for  all  you  are  so 
wise,"  she  replied,  laughing  softly.  "  Everything  grand  or 
noble,  of  which  I  read,  everything  high  or  holy,  finds  a  sort  of 
echo  in  my  little  heart,  and  lies  there  for  ever.  Your  grave, 
heavy,  moral  teachings  speak  to  my  reason,  it  is  true,  but  when 
I  read  of  brave  deeds  done,  of  noble  self-sacrifices  made,  of 
great  sufferings  endured,  in  high  causes,  those  things  teach  my 
heart,  those  things  speak  to  my  soul,  father.  Then  I  reason  no 
longer,  but  feel — feel  how  much  virtue  there  is,  after  all,  and 
generosity,  and  nobleness,  and  charity,  and  love,  in  poor,  frail 
human  nature.  Then  I  learn  not  to  judge  mildly  of  myself, 
nor  harshly  of  my  brothers.  Then  I  feel  happy,  father,  yet  in 
my  happiness  I  wish  to  weep.  For  I  think,  noble  sentiments 
and  generous  emotions  sooner  bring  tears  to  the  eye  than  mere 
pity,  or  mere  sorrow." 

And,  even  as  she  spoke,  her  own  bright  orbs  were  suffused 
with  drops,  like  dew  in  the  violet's  cups,  and  she  shook  her 
head  with  its  profusion  of  long,  fair  ringlets  archly,  as  if  she 


THE    GIFT    OF    GENIUS.  185 

would  have  made  light  of  her  own  sentiment,  and  gazed  up  in 
to  his  face  with  a  tearful  smile. 

"  You  are  a  good  child,  Theresa,  and  good  children  are  very 
dear  to  the  Lord,"  said  the  old  man.  "  But  of  a  truth,  I  would 
I  could  see  you  more  practically-minded ;  less  given  to  these 
singular  romantic  dreamings.  I  say,  not  that  they  are  hurtful, 
or  unwise,  or  untrue,  but  in  a  mere  child,  as  you  are,  Theresa, 
they  are  strange  and  out  of  place,  if  not  unnatural.  I  would  I 
could  see  you  more  merry,  my  little  girl,  and  more  given  to  the 
company  of  your  equals  in  age,  even  if  I  were  to  be  the  loser 
thereby  of  something  of  your  gentle  company.  But  you  love 
not,  I  think,  the  young  girls  of  the  village." 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  love  them  dearly,  father.  I  would  do  anything 
for  any  one  of  them  ;  I  would  give  up  anything  I  have  got  to 
make  them  happy.  Oh,  yes,  I  love  Anna  Harlande,  and  Rose 
Merrivale,  and  Mary  Mitford,  dearly,  but — but — " 

"  But  you  love  not  their  company,  you  would  say,  would  you 
not,  my  child  ?" 

"  That  is  not  what  I  was  about  to  say ;  but  I  know  not  how 
it  is,  their  merriment  is  so  loud,  and  their  glee  so  very  joyous, 
that  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  not  sympathize  with  them  in 
their  joy,  as  I  can  in  their  sorrow  ;  and  they  view  things  with 
eyes  so  different  from  mine,  and  laugh  at  thoughts  that  go  nigh 
to  make  me  weep,  and  see  or  feel  so  little  of  the  loveliness  of 
nature,  and  care  so  little  for  what  I  care  most  of  all,  soft,  sad 
poetry,  or  heart-stirring  romance,  or  inspired  music,  that  when 
I  am  among  them,  I  do  almost  long  to  be  away  from  them  all, 
in  the  calm  of  this  pleasant  chamber,  or  in  the  fragrance  of  my 
bower  beside  the  stream.  And  I  do  feel  my  spirit  jangled  and 
perplexed  by  their  light-hearted,  thoughtless  mirth,  as  one  feels 
at  hearing  a  false  note  struck  in  the  midst  of  a  sweet  sym 
phony.  What  is  this  ?  what  means  this,  my  father  ?" 

"  It  is  a  gift,  Theresa,"  replied  the  old  man,  half  mournfully. 
16* 


186  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  It  means  that  you  are  endowed  rarely,  by  God  himself,  with 
powers  the  most  unusual,  the  most  wondrous,  the  most  beauti 
ful,  most  high  and  godlike  of  any  which  are  allowed  to  mortals. 
I  have  seen  this  long,  long  ago — I  have  mused  over  it ;  hoped, 
prayed,  that  it  might  not  be  so  ;  nay,  striven  to  repress  the 
germs  of  it  in  your  young  spirit,  yet  never  have  I  spoken  of  it 
until  now  ;  for  I  knew  not  that  you  were  conscious,  and  would 
not  be  he  that  should  awaken  you  to  the  consciousness  of  the 
grand  but  perilous  possession  which  you  hold,  delegated  to  you 
direct  from  Omnipotence." 

He  paused,  and  she  gazed  at  him  with  lips  apart,  and  eyes 
wide  in  wonder.  The  color  died  away  in  a  sort  of  mysterious 
awe  from  her  warm  cheek.  The  blood  rushed  tumultuously  to 
her  heart.  She  listened,  breathless  and  amazed.  Never  had 
she  heard  him  speak  thus,  never  imagined  that  he  felt  thus,  be 
fore — yet  now  that  she  did  hear,  she  felt  as  though  she  were 
but  listening  again  to  that  which  she  had  heard  many  times 
already :  and  though  she  understood  not  his  words  altogether, 
they  had  struck  a  kindred  chord  in  her  inmost  soul,  and  while 
its  vibration  was  almost  too  much  for  her  powers  of  endurance, 
it  yet  told  her  that  his  words  were  true. 

She  could  not,  for  her  life,  have  bid  him  go  on,  but  for  worlds 
she  would  not  have  failed  to  hear  him  out. 

He  watched  the  changed  expression  of  her  features,  and 
half  struck  with  a  feeling  of  self-reproach  that  he  should  have 
created  doubts,  perhaps  fears,  in  that  ingenuous  soul,  smiled  on 
her  kindly,  and  asked  in  a  confident  tone  : — 

"  You  have  felt  this  already,  have  you  not,  my  dear  child  ?" 

"  Not  as  you  put  it  to  me,  father ;  no,  I  have  never  dreamed 
or  hoped  that  I  had  any  such  particular  gift  of  God,  such  glo 
rious  and  pre-eminent  possession  as  this  of  which  you  speak. 
I  may,  indeed,  have  fancied  at  times  that  there  was  something 
within  me,  in  which  I  differed  from  others  around  me  —  some- 


ASPIRATIONS    OF    GENIUS.  187 

thing  which  made  me  feel  more  joy — deeper,  and  fuller,  and  more 
soul-fraught  joy,  than  they  feel ;  and  sorrow,  softer,  and  moved 
more  easily,  if  not  more  piercing  or  more  permanent — which 
made  me  love  the  world,  and  its  inhabitants,  and  above  all  its 
Maker,  with  a  far  different  love  from  theirs  —  something  which 
evermore  seems  struggling  within  me,  as  if  it  would  forth  and 
find  tongue,  but  can  not.  But  now,  that  you  have  spoken,  I 
know  that  it  indeed  must  be  as  you  say,  and  that  this  unknown 
something  is  a  gift,  is  a  possession  from  on  high.  What  is  this 
thing,  my  father  ?" 

"  My  child,  this  thing  is  genius,"  replied  the  old  man  sol 
emnly. 

The  bright  blood  rushed  back  to  her  cheek  in  a  flood  of  crim 
son  glory ;  a  strange,  clear  light,  which  never  had  enkindled 
them  before,  sprang  from  her  soft,  dark  eyes  ;  she  leaned  for 
ward  eagerly.  "  Genius  !"  she  cried.  "  Genius  and  I !  Father, 
you  dream,  dear  father." 

"  Would  that  I  did  ;  but  I  do  not,  Theresa." 

"  And  wherefore,  if  it  be  so,  indeed,  that  I  am  so  gifted, 
wherefore  would  you  alter  it,  my  father  ?" 

"  I  would  not  alter  it,"  he  replied,  "  my  little  girl.  Far  be  it 
from  my  thoughts,  weak  worm  that  I  am,  to  alter,  even  if  I 
could  alter,  the  least  of  the  gifts  of  the  great  Giver.  And  this, 
whether  it  be  for  good,  or  unto  evil,  is  one  of  the  greatest  and 
most  glorious.  I  would  not  alter  it,  Theresa.  But  I  would 
guide,  would  direct,  would  moderate  it.  I  would  accustom  you 
to  know  and  comprehend  the  vast  power  of  which  you,  all  un 
consciously,  are  the  possessor.  For,  as  I  said,  it  is  a  fearful 
and  a  perilous  power.  God  forbid  that  I  should  pronounce  the 
most  marvellous  and  godlike  of  the  gifts  which  he  vouchsafes 
to  man,  a  curse  and  not  a  blessing  ;  God  forbid  that,  even  while 
I  see  how  oft  it  is  turned  into  bitterness  and  blight  by  the  cold 
ness  of  the  world,  and  the  check  of  its  heaven-soaring  aspira- 


188  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

tions,  I  should  doubt  that  it  has  within  itself  a  sovereign  balm 
against  its  own  diseases,  a  rapture  mightier  than  any  of  its 
woes,  an  inborn  and  eternal  consciousness  which  bears  it  up  as 
on  immortal  pinions,  above  the  cares  of  the  world,  and  the  poor 
realities  of  life.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  perilous  gift,  and  too 
often,  to  your  sex,  a  fatal  one.  Yet  I  would  not  alarm  you,  my 
own  child,  for  you  have  gentleness  of  soul,  such  as  may  well 
temper  the  coruscations  of  a  spirit  which  waxes  oftentimes  too 
strong  to  be  womanly,  and  piety,  which  shall,  I  trust,  preserve 
you,  should  any  aspiration  of  your  heart  wax  over-vigorous  and 
daring  to  be  contented  with  the  limitations  of  humanity.  In 
the  meantime,  my  child,  fear  nothing,  follow  the  dictates  of 
your  own  pure  heart,  and  pray  for  his  aid,  who  neither  giveth 
aught,  nor  taketh  away,  without  reason.  Hark  !"  he  interrupt 
ed  himself,  starting  slightly,  "  there  is  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
without ;  your  brother  has  returned,  and  it  may  be  Sir  Miles  is 
with  him.  We  will  speak  more  of  this  hereafter." 

And  with  the  word  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

When  he  was  gone  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  with 
a  strange  rapt  expression  on  her  fair  features  rose  to  her  feet, 
exclaiming :  — 

"  Genius  !  Genius  !  Great  God,  great  God,  I  thank  thee." 

Then,  in  the  fervor  of  the  moment,  which  led  her  naturally 
to  clasp  her  hands  together,  she  made  a  movement  to  withdraw 
her  fingers  from  Jasper's  death-like  grasp,  unconscious,  for  the 
time,  of  everything  around  her. 

But,  as  she  did  so,  a  tightened  pressure  of  his  hand,  and 
some  inarticulate  sounds  which  proceeded  from  his  lips,  re 
called  her  with  a  start  to  herself. 

She  dropped  into  her  seat,  as  if  conscience-stricken,  gazed 
fixedly  in  his  face,  then  stooped  and  pressed  her  lips  on  his  in 
animate  brow  ;  started  again,  looked  about  the  room  with  a  half 
guilty  glance,  bowed  her  head  on  his  pillow,  and  wept  bitterly. 


A    RETURN    TO    CONSCIOUSNESS.  189 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    RECOGNITION. 
"  They  had  been  friends  in  youth."  — 

THE  evening  had  advanced  far  into  night  before  the  effects 
of  the  potion  he  had  swallowed  passed  away,  and  left  the  mind 
of  Jasper  clear,  and  his  pulse  regular  and  steady.  When  he 
awoke  from  his  long  stupor,  and  turned  his  eyes  around  him,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  had  dreamed  of  what  he  saw  before  him  ;  for 
the  inanimate  objects  of  the  room,  nay,  the  very  faces  which 
met  his  eye,  had  something  in  them  that  was  not  altogether  un 
familiar,  yet  for  his  life  he  could  not  have  recalled  when,  or  if 
ever  he  had  seen  them  before. 

The  old  dark-wainscoted  walls  of  the  irregular,  many-re 
cessed  apartment,  adorned  with  a  few  water-color  drawings, 
and  specimens  of  needlework,  the  huge  black  and  gold  Indian 
cabinet  in  one  corner,  the  tall  clock-stand  of  some  foreign  wood 
in  another,  the  slab  above  the  yawning  hearth  covered  with 
tropical  shells  and  rare  foreign  curiosities,  the  quaint  and  gro 
tesque  chairs  and  tables,  with  strangely-contorted  legs  and 
arms,  and  wild  satyr-like  faces  grinning  from  their  bosses,  the 
very  bed  on  which  he  lay,  with  its  carved  headboard,  and 
groined  canopy  of  oak,  and  dark-green  damask  curtains,  were 
all  things  which  he  felt  he  must  have  seen,  though  where  and 
how  he  knew  not. 

So  was  the  face  of  the  slight  fair-haired  girl  who  sat  a  little 
way  removed  from  his  bed's  head,  by  a  small  round  work-table, 
on  which  stood  a  waxen  taper,  bending  over  some  one  of  those 
light  tasks  of  embroidery  or  knitting  which  women  love,  and 
are  wont  to  dignify  by  the  name  of  work. 


190  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

On  her  he  fixed  his  eyes  long  and  wistfully,  gazing  at  her,  as 
he  would  have  done  at  a  fair  picture,  without  any  desire  to  ad 
dress  her,  or  to  do  aught  that  should  induce  her  to  move  from 
the  graceful  attitude  in  which  she  sat,  giving  no  sign  of  life 
save  in  the  twinkling  of  her  long,  downcast  eyelashes,  in  the 
calm  rise  and  fall  of  her  gentle  bosom,  and  the  quick  motion  of 
her  busy  fingers. 

Jasper  St.  Aubyn  was  still  weak,  but  he  was  unconscious  of 
any  pain  or  ailment,  though  he  now  began  gradually  to  remem 
ber  all  that  had  passed  before  he  lost  his  consciousness  in  the 
deep  pool  above  the  fords  of  Widecomb. 

So  weak  was  he,  indeed,  that  it  was  almost  too  great  an  effort 
for  him  to  consider  where  he  was,  or  how  he  had  been  saved, 
much  more  to  move  his  body,  or  ask  any  question  of  that  fair 
watcher.  He  felt  indeed  that  he  should  be  perfectly  contented 
to  lie  there  all  his  life,  in  that  painless,  tranquil  mood,  gazing 
upon  that  fair  picture. 

But  while  he  lay  there,  with  his  large  eyes  wide  open  and 
fixed  upon  her,  as  if  by  their  influence  he  would  have  charmed 
her  soul  out  of  its  graceful  habitation,  a  word  or  two  spoken  in 
a  louder  voice  than  had  yet  struck  his  ear,  for  persons  had  been 
speaking  in  the  room  all  the  time,  although  he  had  not  observed 
them,  attracted  his  notice  to  the  other  side  of  his  bed. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  words,  for  he  scarce  heard,  and  did 
not  heed  their  import,  as  the  tone  of  voice  which  struck  him  ; 
for  though  well-known  and  most  familiar,  he  could  in  no  wise 
connect  it  with  the  other  things  around  him. 

With  the  desire  to  ascertain  what  this  might  mean,  there 
came  into  his  mind,  he  knew  not  wherefore,  a  wish  to  do  so 
unobserved ;  and  he  proceeded  forthwith  to  turn  himself  over 
on  his  pillow  so  noiselessly  as  to  excite  no  attention  in  the 
watchers,  whoever  they  might  be. 

He  had  not  made  two  efforts,  however,  to  do  this,  before  he 


MEETING    OF    FORMER    FRIENDS.  191 

became  aware  of  what,  while  he  lay  still,  he  did  not  suspect, 
that  several  of  his  limbs  had  received  severe  contusions,  and 
could  not  as  yet  be  moved  with  impunity. 

He  was  a  singular  youth,  however,  and  an  almost  Spartan 
endurance  of  physical  pain,  with  a  strange  persistency  in  what 
ever  he  undertook,  had  been  from  very  early  boyhood  two  of 
his  strongest  characteristics. 

In  spite,  therefore,  of  his  weakness,  in  spite  of  the  pain  every 
motion  gave  him,  he  persevered,  and  turning  himself  inch  by 
inch,  at  length  gained  a  position  which  enabled  him  clearly  to 
discern  the  speakers. 

They  were  two  in  number,  the  one  facing  him,  the  other 
having  his  back  turned  so  completely  that  all  he  could  see  was 
a  head  covered  with  long-curled  locks  of  snow-white  hair,  a 
dark-velvet  cloak,  and  the  velvet  scabbard  of  a  long  rapier  pro 
truding  far  beyond  the  legs  of  the  oak-chair  on  which  he  sat. 
The  lower  limbs  of  this  person  were  almost  lost  in  darkness  as 
they  lay  carelessly  crossed  under  the  table,  so  that  he  divined 
rather  than  saw  that  they  were  cased  in  heavy  riding-boots,  on 
the  heels  of  which  a  faint  golden  glimmer  gave  token  of  the 
wearer's  rank  in  the  knightly  spurs  he  wore. 

The  lamp  which  stood  upon  the  table  by  which  they  were 
conversing  was  set  between  the  two,  so  that  it  was  quite  invis 
ible  to  Jasper,  and  its  light,  which  to  his  eyes  barely  touched 
the  edges  of  the  figure  he  had  first  observed,  fell  full  upon  the 
pale  high  brow  and  serene  lineaments  of  the  other  person,  who 
was  in  fact  no  other  than  the  old  man  who  had  spoken  to  the 
youth  in  the  intervals  of  his  trance,  and  administered  the  potion 
from  the  effects  of  which  he  was  but  now  recovering. 

Of  this,  however,  Jasper  had  no  recollection,  although  he 
wondered,  as  he  had  done  concerning  the  girl,  where  he  had 
before  seen  that  fine  countenance  and  benevolent  expression, 
and  how  once  seen  he  ever  should  have  forgotten  it. 


192  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

There  was  yet  a  third  person  in  the  group,  though  he  took 
no  part  in  the  conversation,  and  appeared  to  be,  like  Jasper, 
rather  an  interested  and  observant  witness  of  what  was  going 
on,  than  an  actor  in  the  scene. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark-haired  and  dark-eyed  man,  in  the  first 
years  of  manhood,  not  perhaps  above  five  or  six  years  Jasper's 
senior  ;  but  his  bronzed  and  sunburnt  cheeks  curiously  contrast 
ed  with  the  fairness  of  his  forehead,  where  it  had  not  been  ex 
posed  to  the  sun,  and  an  indescribable  blending  of  boldness  — 
it  might  have  almost  been  called  audacity — with  calm  self- 
confidence  and  cold  composure,  which  made  up  the  expression 
of  his  face,  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  had  seen  much  of  the 
Avorld,  and  learned  many  of  its  secrets,  perhaps  by  the  stern 
lessoning  of  the  great  teachers,  suffering  and  sorrow. 

The  fignre  of  this  young  man  was  but  imperfectly  visible,  as 
he  stood  behind  the  high-backed  chair,  on  which  the  old  man, 
from  whom  the  similarity  in  their  features,  if  not  in  their  ex 
pression,  Jasper  took  to  be  his  father,  was  seated.  But  his 
face,  his  muscular  neck,  his  well-developed  chest  and  broad 
shoulders,  displayed  by  a  close-fitting  jerkin  of  some  dark  stuff, 
were  all  in  strong  light ;  and  as  the  features  and  expression  of 
the  countenance  gave  token  of  a  powerful  character  and  ener 
getic  will,  so  did  the  frame  give  promise  of  ability  to  carry  out 
the  workings  of  the  mind. 

The  dialogue,  which  had  been  interrupted  by  a  silence  of 
some  seconds  following  on  the  words  that  had  attracted  Jas 
per's  notice,  was  now  continued  by  the  old  man  who  sat  facing 
him. 

"  That  question,"  he  said,  in  a  firm  yet  somewhat  mournful 
tone,  "  is  not  an  easy  one  to  answer.  The  difficulty  of  subdu 
ing  prejudices  on  my  own  part,  the  fear  of  wounding  pride  on 
yours — these  might  have  had  their  share  in  influencing  my 
conduct.  Beside,  you  must  remember  that  years  have  elapsed 


THE    ESTRANGEMENT.  193 

— the  very  years  which  most  form  the  character  of  men — since 
we  parted ;  that  they  have  elapsed  under  circumstances  the 
most  widely  different  for  you  and  for  me  ;  that  we  are  not,  in 
short,  in  anything  the  same  men  we  then  were  —  that  the 
gnarled,  weather-beaten,  earth-fast  oak  of  centuries  differs  not 
so  much  from  the  green  pliant  sapling  of  half  a  dozen  summers, 
as  the  old  man,  with  his  heart  chilled  and  hardened  into  living 
steel  by  contact  with  the  world,  from  the  youth  full  of  generous 
impulses  and  lofty  aspirations,  loving  all  men,  and  doubting 
naught  either  in  heaven  above,  or  in  the  earth  beneath.  You 
must  remember,  moreover,  that  although,  as  you  have  truly 
said,  we  were  friends  in  youth,  our  swords,  our  purses,  and 
our  hearts  in  common,  we  had  even  then  many  points  of  se 
rious  difference  ;  and  lastly,  and  most  of  all,  you  must  remem 
ber  that  if  we  had  been  friends,  we  were  not  friends  when  we 
last  parted — " 

"  What !  what !"  exclaimed  a  voice,  which  Jasper  instantly 
recognised  for  his  father's,  though  for  years  he  had  not  heard 
him  speak  in  tones  of  the  like  animation.  "  What,  William 
Allan,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  imagined  that  any  enmity 
could  have  dwelt  in  my  mind,  for  so  slight  a  cause — " 

"  Slight  a  cause  !"  interrupted  the  other.  "  Do  you  call  that 
slight  which  made  my  heart  drop  blood,  and  my  brain  boil  with 
agony  for  years  —  which  changed  my  course  of  life,  altered  my 
fortunes,  character,  heart,  soul,  for  ever ;  which  made  me,  in  a 
word,  what  I  now  am  ?  Do  you  call  that  a  slight  cause,  Miles 
St.  Aubyn  ?  Show  me,  then,  what  you  call  a  grave  one." 

"  I  had  forgotten,  William,  I  had  forgotten,"  replied,  Sir 
Miles,  gently,  and  perhaps  self-reproachfully.  "  I  mean,  I 
had  forgotten  that  the  rivaling  in  a  strife  which  to  the  winner 
seems  a  little  thing,  may  to  the  loser  be  death,  or  worse  than 
death !  Forgive  me,  William  Allan,  I  had  forgotten  in  my  self 
ish  thoughtlessness,  and  galled  you  unawares.  But  let  us  say 

17 


194  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

no  more  of  this  —  let  the  past  be  forgotten — let  wrongs  done, 
if  wrongs  were  done,  be  buried  in  her  grave,  who  was  the  most 
innocent  cause  of  them  ;  and  let  us  now  remember  only  that  we 
were  friends  in  youth,  and  that  after  long  years  of  separation, 
we  are  thus  wonderfully  brought  together  in  old  age  ;  let  me 
hope  to  be  friends  henceforth  unto  the  grave." 

"  Amen,  I  say  to  that.     Miles  St.  Aubyn,  amen !" 

And  the  two  old  men  clasped  their  withered  hands  across  the 
table,  and  Jasper  might  see  the  big  drops  tricking  slowly  down 
the  face  of  him  who  was  called  William  Allan,  while  from  the 
agitation  of  his  father's  frame  he  judged  that  he  was  not  free 
from  the  like  agitation. 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which,  as  he  fancied,  the 
young  man  looked  somewhat  frowningly  on  the  scene  of  recon 
ciliation  ;  but  the  frown,  it  frown  it  were,  passed  speedily  away, 
and  left  the  bold,  dark  face  as  calm  and  impassive  as  the  sur 
face  of  a  deep  unruffled  water. 

A  moment  or  two  afterward,  Sir  Miles  raised  his  head,  which 
he  had  bowed  a  little,  perhaps  to  conceal  the  feelings  which 
might  have  agitated  it,  and  again  clasping  the  hand  of  the  other, 
said  eagerly, — 

"  It  is  you,  William,  who  have  saved  my  boy,  my  Jasper  ; 
and  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  a  scion  of  your  house  has  pre 
served  one  of  mine  from  death,  or  yet  worse,  ruin  !" 

William  Allan  started,  as  if  a  sharp  weapon  had  pierced  him. 

"  And  how,"  he  cried,  "  Miles  St.  Aubyn,  how  was  the  debt 
repaid  ?  I  tell  you  it  is  written  in  the  books  that  can  not  err. 
that  our  houses  were  ordained  for  mutual  destruction !" 

"  What,  man,"  exclaimed  Sir  Miles,  half-jestingly,  "  do  you 
still  cling  to  the  black  art?  Do  you  still  read  the  dark  book  of 
fate  ?  Methought  that  fancy  would  have  taken  wing  with  other 
youthful  follies." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  sadly,  but  made  no  reply. 


THE    FEARFUL    VISION.  195 

"  And  what  has  it  taught  thee,  William,  unless  it  be  that  this 
life  is  short,  and  this  world's  treasures  worthless  ;  and  that  I 
have  learned  from  a  better  book,  a  book  of  wider  margin. 
What,  I  say,  has  it  taught  thee,  William  Allan  ?" 

"  All  things,"  replied  the  old  man,  sorrowfully.  "  Even  unto 
this  meeting — every  action,  every  event  of  my  own  life,  past 
or  to  come,  happy  or  miserable,  virtuous  or  evil,  it  has  taught 
me." 

"  But  has  it  taught  thee,  William,  whereby  to  win  the  good 
and  eschew  the  evil ;  whereby  to  hold  fast  to  the  virtuous,  and 
say  unto  the  evil,  '  Get  behind  me.'  Has  it  taught  thee,  I  say 
not  to  be  wiser,  but  to  be  happier  or  better  ?" 

"  What  is,  is  !  What  shall  be,  shall  be  !  What  is  written, 
shall  be  done  !  We  may  flap,  or  flutter,  or  even  fight,  like  fish 
or  birds,  or,  if  you  will,  like  lions  in  the  toil ;  but  we  are  net 
tled,  and  may  not  escape,  from  the  beginning  !  The  man  may 
learn  the  workings  of  the  God,  but  how  shall  he  control  them  ?" 

"  And  this  is  thy  philosophy — this  all  that  thine  art  teaches  ?" 

"  It  is.     No  more." 

"  A  sad  philosophy — a  vain  art,"  replied  the  other.  "I'll 
none  of  them." 

"  I  tell  thee,  Miles  St.  Aubyn,  that  years  ago,  years  ere  I  had 
heard  of  Widecomb  or  its  water,  I  saw  yon  deep,  red-whirling 
pool ;  I  saw  that  drowning  youth  ;  I  saw  the  ready  rescue,  and 
the  gentle  nursing ;  and  now,"  he  cried,  stretching  his  hands 
out  widely,  and  gazing  into  vacancy,  "  I  see  a  wilder  and  a  sad 
der  sight — a  deeper  pool,  a  stronger  cataract,  a  fierce  storm 
bellowing  among  the  hills,  and  torrents  thundering  down  every 
gorge  and  gully  to  swell  the  flooded  rivers.  A  young  man  and 
a  maiden — yet  no!  no!  not  a  maiden!  mounted  on  gallant 
horses,  are  struggling  in  the  whelming  eddies.  Great  God ! 
avert — hold  !  hold  !  He  lifts  his  arm,  he  smites  her  with  his 
loaded  whip — smites  her  between  the  eyes  that  smiles  upon 


196  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

him;  she  falls,  she  is  down,  down  in  the  whirling  waters — 
rider  and  horse  swept  over  the  mad  cataract ;  but  who — who  ? 
—  ha!"  and  with  a  wild  shriek  he  started  to  his  feet,  and  fell 
back  into  the  arms  of  the  young  man,  who  from  the  beginning 
of  the  paroxysm  evidently  had  expected  its  catastrophe,  and 
who,  with  the  assistance  of  the  girl,  supported  him,  now  quite 
inanimate  and  powerless,  from  the  room,  merely  saying  to  Sir 
Miles,  "  Be  not  alarmed,  I  will  return  forthwith." 

"  My  father !"  exclaimed  Jasper,  in  a  faint  voice,  as  the  door 
closed  upon  them. 

The  old  man  turned  hastily  to  the  well-known  accents,  and 
hurried  to  the  bedside.  "  My  boy,  my  own  boy,  Jasper.  Now, 
may  God's  name  be  praised  for  ever !" 

And  falling  into  a  chair  by  his  pillow,  the  same  chair  on 
which  that  sweet  girl  had  sat  a  few  hours  before,  he  bent  over 
him,  and  asked  him  a  thousand  questions,  waiting  for  no  reply, 
but  bathing  his  face  with  his  tears,  and  covering  his  brow  with 
kisses. 

When  he  had  at  length  satisfied  the  old  man  that  he  was  well 
and  free  from  pain,  except  a  few  slight  bruises,  he  asked  his 
father  eagerly  where  he  was,  and  who  was  that  strange,  old  man. 

"  You  are  in  the  cottage,  my  dear  boy,"  replied  the  old  knight, 
"  above  Widecomb  pool,  tended  by  those  who,  by  the  grace  of 
God  and  his  exceeding  mercy,  saved  you  from  the  consequen 
ces  of  the  frantic  act  which  so  nearly  left  me  childless.  Oh! 
Jasper,  Jasper,  'twas  a  fearful  risk,  and  it  had  well  nigh  been 
fatal." 

"  It  was  but  one  mis-step,  father,"  replied  the  youth,  who,  as 
he  rapidly  recovered  his  strength,  recovered  also  his  bold 
speech  and  daring  courage.  "  Had  there  been  but  foothold  at 
the  tunnel's  end,  I  had  landed  my  fish  bravely ;  and,  on  my 
honor,  I  believe,  had  I  such  another  on  my  line's  end,  I  should 
risk  it  again.  Why,  father,  he  was  at  least  a  thirty-pounder." 


THE  FATHER'S  REPROOF.  197 

"  Never  do  so — never  do  so  again,  Jasper.  Remember  that 
to  risk  life  heedlessly,  and  for  no  purpose  save  an  empty  grati 
fication,  a  mere  momentary  pleasure,  is  a  great  crime  toward 
God,  and  a  gross  act  of  selfishness  toward  men,  as  much  so  as 
to  peril  or  to  lose  it  in  a  high  cause,  or  for  a  noble  object,  is 
great,  and  good,  and  self-devoted.  Think !  had  you  perished 
here,  all  for  a  paltry  fish,  which  you  might  purchase  for  a  sil 
ver  crown,  you  had  left  to  me  years — nay,  a  life  of  misery." 

"  Nay,  father,  I  never  thought  of  that,"  answered  the  young 
man,  not  unmoved  by  the  remonstrance  of  his  father,  "  but  it 
was  not  the  value  of  the  fish.  I  should  have  given  him  away, 
ten  to  one,  had  I  taken  him.  It  was  that  I  do  not  like  to  be 
beaten." 

"  A  good  feeling,  Jasper  ;  and  one  that  leads  to  many  good 
things,  and  without  which  nothing  great  can  be  attained ;  but 
to  do  good,  like  all  other  feelings,  it  must  be  moderated  and 
controlled  by  reason.  But  you  must  learn  to  think  ever  before 
acting,  Jasper." 

"  I  will — I  will,  indeed,  sir  ;  but  you  have  not  told  me  who 
is  this  strange,  old  man." 

"  An  old  friend  of  mine,  Jasper — an  old  friend  whom  I  have 
not  seen  for  years,  and  who  is  now  doubly  a  friend,  since  he 
has  saved  your  life." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  young  man  entered 
bearing  a  candle. 

"  He  is  at  ease  now,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  painful  and  a  search 
ing  malady  to  which  at  seasons  he  is  subject.  We  know  well 
how  to  treat  him  ;  when  he  awakes  to-morrow,  he  will  remem 
ber  nothing  of  what  passed  to-day,  though  at  the  next  attack  he 
will  remember  every  circumstance  of  this.  I  pray  you,  there 
fore,  Sir  Miles,  take  no  note  in  the  morning,  nor  appear  to  ob 
serve  it,  if  he  be  somewhat  silent  and  reserved.  Ha !  young 
sir,"  he  continued,  seeing  that  Jasper  was  awake,  and  taking 

17* 


198  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

him  kindly  by  the  hand,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  re 
covered." 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  thank  you,  that 
you  have  saved  my  life,  which  I  know  you  must  have  done  right 
gallantly,  seeing  the  peril  of  the  deed." 

"  About  as  gallantly  as  you  did,  when  you  came  so  near  lo 
sing  it,"  he  answered.  "  But  come,  Sir  Miles,  night  wears 
apace,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  to  show  you  to  your  humble 
chamber  the  best  our  lowly  house  can  offer,  I  will  wish  you 
good  repose,  and  return  to  watch  over  my  young  friend  here." 

"  My  age  must  excuse  me,  that  I  accept  your  offer,  whose 
place  it  should  be  to  watch  over  him  myself." 

"  I  need  no  watcher,  sir,"  replied  Jasper,  boldly.  "  I  am 
quite  well  now,  and  shall  sleep,  I  warrant  you,  unto  cock-crow 
without  awakening." 

"  Good-night,  then,  boy  !"  cried  Sir  Miles,  stooping  over  him 
and  again  kissing  his  brow,  "  and  God  send  thee  better  in 
health  and  wiser  in  condition." 

"  Good-night,  sir  ;  and  God  send  me  stronger  and  braver,  and 
more  like  my  father,"  said  the  youth,  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  I  will  return  anon,  young  friend — for  friends  I  hope,  we 
shall  be,"  said  the  other,  as  he  left  the  room,  lighting  Sir  Miles 
respectfully  across  the  threshold. 

"I  hope  we  shall — and  I  thank  you.  But  I  shall  be  fast 
asleep  ere  then." 

And  so  he  was  ;  but  not  the  less  for  that  did  the  stalwart 
young  man  watch  over  him,  sitting  erect  in  one  of  the  high- 
backed  chairs,  until  the  first  pale  light  of  dawn  came  stealing 
in  through  the  latticed  casement,  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the  early 
cock  announced  the  morning  of  another  day. 


AN    EARLY    RISER.  199 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    BASEBORN. 

"  0  agony !  keen  agony, 

For  trusting  heart  to  find ; 
That  vows  believed,  were  vows  conceived, 
As  light  as  summer  wind." — MOTHER-WEIL 

THE  earliest  cock  had  barely  crowed  his  first  salutations  to 
the  awakening  day,  and  the  first  warblers  had  not  yet  begun 
to  make  their  morning  music  in  the  thick  shrubberies  around 
the  cottage,  when  aroused  betimes,  by  his  anxiety  for  Jasper, 
Sir  Miles  made  his  appearance,  already  full  dressed,  at  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  his  son  was  sleeping. 

For  he  was  yet  asleep,  with  that  hardy  young  man  still 
watching  over  him,  apparently  unmoved  by  the  loss  of  his  own 
rest,  and  wholly  indifferent  to  what  are  usually  deemed  the  in 
dispensable  requirements  of  nature. 

"  You  are  aloof  betimes,  sir,"  said  the  youth,  rising  from  his 
seat  as  the  old  cavalier  entered  the  room  ;  "  pity  that  you  should 
have  arisen  so  early,  for  I  could  have  watched  him  twice  as 
long,  had  it  been  needful,  but  in  truth  it  was  not  so.  Your  son 
has  scarce  moved,  Sir  Miles,  since  you  left  tiie  chamber  last 
night.  You  see  how  pleasantly  and  soundly  he  is  sleeping." 

"  It  was  not  that,  young  sir,"  replied  the  old  man  cordially. 
"  It  was  not  that  I  doubted  your  good  will,  or  your  good  watch 
ing  either ;  but  he  is  my  son,  my  only  son,  and'  how  should  I 
but  be  anxious.  But  as  you  say,  he  sleeps  pleasantly  and  well. 
God  be  thanked,  therefore.  He  will  be  none  the  worse  for 
this." 

"  Better,  perhaps,  Sir  Miles,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  slight 


200  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

smile.  "  Wiser,  at  least,  I  doubt  not  he  will  be  ;  for  in  good 
truth,  it  was  a  very  boyish,  and  a  very  foolish  risk  to  run." 

The  old  man,  for  the  first  time,  looked  at  the  speaker  stead 
fastly,  and  was  struck  by  the  singular  expression  of  his  coun 
tenance — that  strange  mixture  of  impassive,  self-confident  com 
posure,  and  half-scornful  audacity,  which  I  have  mentioned  as 
being  his  most  striking  characteristics.  On  the  preceding 
evening,  Sir  Miles  had  been  so  much  engrossed  by  the  anxiety 
he  felt  about  his  son,  and  subsequently  by  the  feelings  called 
forth  in  his  inmost  heart  by  the  discovery  of  an  old  comrade  in 
the  person  of  William  Allan,  that  in  fact  he  had  paid  little  at 
tention  to  either  of  the  other  personages  present. 

He  had  observed,  indeed,  that  there  were  a  fair,  young  girl 
and  a  powerfully-framed  youth  present ;  he  had  even  addressed 
a  few  words  casually  to  both  of  them,  but  they  had  left  no  im 
pression  on  his  mind,  and  he  had  not  even  considered  who  or 
what  they  were  likely  to  be. 

Now,  however,  when  he  was  composed  and  relieved  of  fear 
for  his  son's  life,  he  was  struck,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  expres 
sion  and  features  of  the  young  man,  and  began  to  consider  who 
he  could  be  ;  for  there  was  no  such  similarity,  whether  of  fea 
ture,  expression,  voice,  air,  or  gesture,  between  him  and  Wil 
liam  Allan,  as  is  wont  to  exist  between  son  and  sire. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  however,  the  old  cavalier  replied, 
not  altogether  pfeased  apparently  by  the  tone  of  the  last  remark. 

"  It  was  a  very  bold  and  manly  risk,  it  appears  to  me,"  he 
said,  "  and  if  rash,  can  hardly  be  called  boyish ;  and  you,  I 
should  think,"  he  added,  "  would  be  the  last  to  blame  bold  ac 
tions.  You  look  like  anything  but  one  who  should  recommend 
cold  counsels,  or  be  slack  either  to  dare  or  do.  I  fancy  you 
have  seen  stirring  times  somewhere,  and  been  among  daring 
deeds  yourself." 

"  So  many  times,  Sir  Miles,"  replied  the  young  man,  modest- 


THE    YOUNG    SAILOR.  201 

ly,  that  I  have  learned  how  absurd  it  is  to  seek  such  occasions 
without  cause.  There  be  necessary  risks  enough  in  life,  and 
man  has  calls  enough,  and  those  unavoidable,  on  his  courage, 
without  going  out  of  his  way  to  seek  them,  or  throwing  any 
energy  or  boldness  unprofitably  to  the  winds.  At  least  so  I 
have  found  it  in  the  little  I  have  seen  of  human  life  and 
action." 

"  Ha  !  you  speak  well,"  said  Sir  Miles,  looking  even  more 
thoughtfully  than  before  at  the  marked  and  somewhat  weather- 
beaten  features  of  the  young  man.  "  And  where  have  you  met 
with  perils  so  rife,  and  learned  so  truly  the  need  of  disciplining 
natural  energies  and  valor  ?" 

"  On  the  high  seas,  Sir  Miles,  of  which  I  have  been  a  fol 
lower  from  a  boy.!' 

"  Indeed  !  are  you  such  a  voyager  !  and  where,  I  pray  you, 
have  you  served  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say  that  I  have  exactly  served.  But  I  have  visit 
ed  both  the  Indias,  East  and  West ;  and  have  seen  some 
smart  fighting — where  they  say  peace  never  comes — beyond 
the  line,  I  mean  with  the  Dons,  both  in  Darien  and  Peru." 

"  Ha  !  but  you  have  indeed  seen  the  world,  for  one  so  young 
as  you  ;  and  yet  I  think  you  have  not  sailed  in  the  king's  ships, 
nor  held  rank  in  the  service." 

"  No,  Sir  Miles,  I  am  but  a  poor  free-trader  ;  and  yet  some 
times  I  think  that  we  have  carried  the  English  flag  farther,  and 
made  the  English  name  both  better  known  and  more  widely 
feared,  than  the  cruisers  of  any  king  who  has  sat  on  our  throne, 
since  the  good  old  days  of  Queen  Bess." 

"  His  present  majesty  did  good  service  against  the  Dutch, 
young  man.  And  what  do  you  say  to  Blake  ?  Who  ever  did 
more  gloriously  at  sea,  than  rough  old  Blake  ?" 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  that  was  in  Noll's  days,  and  we  may  not  call 
him  a  king  of  England,  though  of  a  certainty  he  was  her  wise 


202  JASPER    ST.    AUBTN. 

and  valiant  ruler.  And  for  his  present  majesty,  God  bless  him ! 
that  Opdam  business  was  when  he  was  the  duke  of  York  ;  and 
he  has  forgotten  all  his  glory,  I  think,  now  that  he  has  become 
king,  and  lets  the  Frenchman  and  the  Don  do  as  they  please 
with  our  colonists  and  traders,  and  the  Dutchman,  too,  for  that 
matter." 

The  old  man  paused,  and  shook  his  head  gravely  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  then  resumed  with  a  smile  : — 

"  So  so,  my  young  friend,  you  are  one  of  those  bold  spirits 
who  claim  to  judge  for  yourselves,  and  make  peace  or  war  as 
you  think  well,  without  waiting  the  slow  action  of  senate  or 
kings,  who  hold  that  hemispheres,  not  treaties,  are  the  measure 
of  hostility  or  amity  : — 

"  Not  so,  exactly,  noble  sir.  But  where  we  find  peace  or 
war,  there  we  take  them ;  and  if  the  Dons  won't  be  quiet,  on 
the  other  side  the  line,  and  our  good  king  won't  keep  them 
quiet,  why  we  must  either  take  them  as  we  find  them,  or  give 
up  the  great  field  to  them  altogether." 

"  Which  you  hold  to  be  un-English  and  unmanly  ?" 

"  Even  so,  sir." 

"  Well,  I,  for  one,  will  not  gainsay  you.  But  do  not  you 
fear,  sometimes  that  while  you  are  thus  stretching  a  commission 
— that  is  the  term,  I  believe,  among  you  liberal  gentlemen — 
you  may  chance  to  get  your  own  neck  stretched  some  sultry 
morning  in  the  Floridas  or  in  Darien  ?" 

"  One  of  the  very  risks  I  spoke  of  but  now,  Sir  Miles,"  re 
plied  the  young  man,  laughing.  "  My  life  were  not  worth  five 
minutes'  purchase  if  the  governor  of  St.  Augustine  or  of  Panama 
either,  for  that  matter,  could  once  lay  hold  on  me." 

"  I  marvel,"  said  the  old  cavalier,  again  shaking  his  head  sol 
emnly,  k£  I  marvel  much — "  and  then  interrupting  himself  sud 
denly  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence  he  lapsed  into  a  fit  of  med 
itative  silence. 


THE    DISCLOSURE.  203 

"  At  what,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  —  at  what  do  you  so  much, 
marvel  ?" 

"  That  William  Allan  should  consent,"  replied  the  cavalier, 
"that  son  of  his  should  embark  in  so  wild  and  stormy  a  career — 
in  a  career  which,  I  should  have  judged,  with  his  strict  princi 
ples  and  somewhat  puritanical  feeling,  he  would  deem  the  re 
verse  of  gracious  or  godfearing." 

"  He  knows  not  what  career  I  follow,"  answered  the  young 
man,  bluntly.  "  But  you  are  in  error  altogether,  sir.  I  am  no 
son  of  William  Allan." 

"  No  son  of  William  Allan  !  Ha !  now  that  I  think  of  it, 
your  features  are  not  his,  nor  your  voice  either." 

"  Nor  my  body,  nor  my  soul !"  replied  the  other,  hastily  and 
hotly,  "  no  more  than  the  free  falcon's  are  those  of  the  caged 
linnet !  Sometimes  I  even  marvel  how  it  can  be  that  any  drop 
of  mutual  or  common  blood  should  run  in  our  veins  ;  and  yet  it 
is  so — and  I  —  I — yet  no  —  I  do  not  repent  it !" 

"  And  wherefore  should  you  ?  there  is  no  worthier  or  better 
man,  I  do  believe,  than  William  Allan  living ;  and,  in  his 
younger  days  at  least,  I  know  there  was  no  braver." 

"  No  braver?  —  indeed!  indeed!"  exclaimed -the  young  man, 
eagejly — "  was  he,  indeed,  brave  ?" 

"  Ay,  was  he,  youth !  brave  both  to  do  and  to  suffer.  Brave, 
both  with  the  quick  and  dauntless  courage  to  act,  and  with  the 
rarer  and  more  elevated  courage  to  resolve  and  hold  fast  to  reso 
lution.  But  who  are  you,  who,  living  with  him,  know  both  so 
little  and  so  much  of  William  Allan  ?  If  you  be  not  his  son, 
who  are  you  ?" 

"  His  sister's  son,  Sir  Miles — his  only  sister's  son,  to  whom, 
since  that  sister's  death,  he  has  been — God  forgive  me  for  that 
I  said  but  now — more  than  a  father;  for  surely  I  have  tried 
him  more  than  ever  son  tried  a  father,  and  he  has  borne  with 
me  still  with  a  most  absolute  indulgence  and  unwearied  love." 


204  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"What — what!"  exclaimed  Sir  Miles,  much  moved  and 
even  agitated  by  what  he  heard,  "  are  you  the  child  of  that  in 
nocent  and  beautiful  Alicia  Allan,  whom — whom — "  The  old 
man  faltered  and  stopped  short,  for  he  was  in  fact  on  the  point 
of  bursting  into  tears. 

But  the  youth  finished  the  sentence,  which  he  had  left  un- 
concluded,  in  a  stern,  slow  voice,  and  with  a  lowering  brow. 

"  Whom  your  friend,  Denzil  Olifaunt,  betrayed  by  a  mock 
marriage,  and  afterward  deserted  with  her  infants.  Yes,  Sir 
Miles,  I  am  one  of  those  infants,  the  son  of  Alicia  Allan's 
shame  !  And  my  uncle  did  not  slay  him — therefore  it  is  I 
asked  you,  was  he  brave." 

"  And  yet  he  was  slain — and  for  that  very  deed  !"  replied  the 
old  man,  gloomily,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"  He  was  slain,"  repeated  the  young  sailor,  whose  curiosity 
and  interest  were  now  greatly  excited.  "  But  how  can  you 
tell  wherefore  ?  No  one  has  ever  known  who  slew  him — how 
then  can  you  name  the  cause  of  his  slaying  ?" 

"  There  is  ONE  who  knows  all  things  !" 

"  But  HE  imparts  not  his  knowledge,"  answered  the  other, 
not  irreverently.  "  And  unless  you  slew  him,  I  see  not  how 
you  can  know  this.  Yet,  hold,  hold !"  he  continued,  impetu 
ously,  as  he  saw  that  Sir  Miles  was  about  to  speak,  "  if  you  did 
slay  him,  tell  it  not ;  for  if  he  did  betray  my  mother,  if  he  did 
abandon  me  to  disgrace  and  ruin  —  still,  still  he  was  my 
father." 

"  I  slew  him  not,  young  man,"  replied  the  cavalier,  gravely, 
*'  but  he  was  slain  for  the  cause  that  I  have  named,  and  I  saw 
him  die  —  repentant." 

"  Repentant !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  grasping  the  withered 
hand  of  the  old  knight,  in  the  intensity  of  his  emotions,  "  did  he 
repent  the  wrong  he  had  done  my  mother  ?" 

"  As  surely  as  he  died," 


FARTHER    REVELATIONS.  205 

"  May  God  forgive  him,  then,"  said  the  seaman,  clasping  his 
hands  together  and  bursting  into  tears,  "  as  I  forgive  him." 

"  Amen  !  amen  !"  cried  the  knight,  "  for  he  was  mine  ancient 
friend,  the  comrade  of  my  boyhood,  before  he  did  that  thing ; 
and  I,  too,  have  something  to  forgive  to  him." 

"  You,  Sir  Miles,  you ! — what  can  you  have  to  forgive  ?" 

"  Tell  me  first,  tell  me — how  are  you  named  ?" 

"  Denzil,"  answered  the  youth,  "  Denzil,  Nothing  /"  he  added, 
very  bitterly,  "  my  country,  and  my  country's  law  give  me  no 
other  name,  but  only  Denzil — its  enemies  have  named  me 
Bras-de-fer  /" 

"  Then  mark  me,  Denzil ;  as  he  of  whom  you  are  sprung,  of 
whom  you  are  named,  was  my  first  friend,  so  was  your  mother 
my  first  love  ;  and  she  returned  my  love,  till  he,  my  sometime 
confidant,  did  steal  her  from  me,  and  made  his  paramour,  whom 
I  would  have  made  my  wife." 

"  Great  God !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  struck  with  con 
sternation ;  "  then  it  must,  it  must  have  been  so — it  was  you 
who  slew  my — my  father  !" 

"  Young  man,  I  never  lied." 

"  Pardon  me,  Sir  Miles.  Pardon  me,  I  am  half  distraught. 
And  you  loved  my  mother,  and — and — he  repented.  Why 
was  not  I  told  of  this  before  ?  And  yet,"  he  added,  again 
pausing,  as  if  some  fresh  suspicion  struck  him,  "  and  yet  how 
is  this  ?  I  heard  you  speak  yester  even  to  my  uncle,  of  wrongs 
done  —  done  by  yourself  to  him,  and  of  a  woman's  death — that 
woman,  therefore,  was  not,  could  not  have  been  my  mother. 
Who,  then,  was  she?" 

"  His  mother,"  replied  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn,  calmly,  but  sadly, 
pointing  to  the  bed  on  which  Jasper  lay  sleeping  tranquilly, 
and  all  unconsciously  of  the  strange  revelations  which  were 
going  on  around  him.  "  If  my  friend  robbed  me  of  William 
Allan's  sister,  so  I  won  from  William  Allan,  in  after-days,  her 

18 


206  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

who  owned  his  affection ;  but  with  this  difference,  that  she  I 
won  never  returned  your  uncle's  love  from  the  beginning,  and 
that  I  never  betrayed  his  confidence.  If  I  were  the  winner, 
it  was  in  fair  and  loyal  strife,  and  though  it  has  been,  as  I 
learned  for  the  first  time  last  night,  a  sore  burden  on  your  un 
cle's  heart,  it  has  been  none  on  my  conscience  ;  my  withers 
are  unwrung." 

"  I  believe  it,  sir  ;  from  my  soul  I  believe  it,"  cried  the  young 
man,  enthusiastically,  "  for,  on  my  life,  I  think  you  are  all  honor 
and  nobility.  But  tell  me,  tell  me  now,  if  you  love,  if  you  pity 
me  —  as  you  should  do  for  my  mother's  sake — who  slew  my 
father  ?" 

"  I  have  sworn,"  answered  the  cavalier,  "  I  have  sworn  never 
to  reveal  that  to  mortal  man  ;  and  if  I  had  not  sworn,  to  you  I 
could  not  reveal  it ;  for,  if  I  judge  aright,  you  would  hold  your 
self  bound  to — " 

"  Avenge  it !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  fiercely,  interrupting 
him  ;  "  ay,  were  it  at  my  soul's  purchase  —  since  he  repented." 

"  He  did  repent,  Denzil ;  nay,  more,  he  died,  desiring  only 
that  he  could  repair  the  wrong  he  had  done  you,  regretting 
only  that  he  could  not  give  you  his  name,  and  his  inheritance, 
as  he  did  give  you  his  dying  blessing,  and  your  mother  his  last 
thought,  his  last  word  in  this  world." 

"  Did  she  know  this  ?" 

"  Denzil,  I  can  not  answer  you ;  for  within  a  few  days  after 
your  father's  death,  I  left  England  for  the  Low  Countries,  and 
returned  not  until  many  a  year  had  passed  into  the  bygone  eter 
nity.  When  I  did  return,  the  sorrows  of  Alicia  Allan  were  at 
an  end  for  ever ;  and  though  I  then  made  all  inquiries  in  all 
quarters,  I  could  learn  nothing  of  your  uncle  or  yourself,  nor 
ever  have  heard  of  you  any  more  until  last  night,  when  we 
were  all  so  singularly  brought  together." 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  this  ;  I  would,  I  would  to  God  that 


THE  BENDING  OF  THE  TWIG.  207 

I  had  known  it.  My  life  had  been  less  wild,  then,  less  turbu 
lent,  less  stormy.  My  spirit  had  not  then  burned  with  so  rash 
a  recklessness.  It  was  the  sense  of  wrong,  of  bitter  and  un 
merited  wrong  done  in  past  times,  of  cold  and  undeserved  scorn 
heaped  on  me  in  the  present,  as  the  bastard  —  the  child  of  in 
famy  and  shame  !  that  goaded  me  into  so  hot  action.  But  it  is 
done  now,  it  is  done,  and  can  not  be  amended.  The  world  it  is 
which  has  made  me  what  I  am  —  let  the  world  look  to  it — let 
the  world  enjoy  the  work  of  its  hands." 

"There  is  nothing,  Denzil,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly, 
"  nothing  but  death  that  can  not  be  amended.  Undone  tjiings 
may  not  be,  but  all  things  may  be  amended  by  God's  good 
grace  to  aid  us." 

"  Hast  thou  not  seen  a  sapling  in  the  forest,  which,  over 
crowded  by  trees  of  stronger  growth,  or  warped  from  its  true 
direction  by  some  unnoted  accident,  hath  grown  up  vigorous 
indeed  and  strong,  but  deformed  amd  distorted  in  its  yearly  prog 
ress,  until  arrived  at  its  full  maturity  ?  Not  all  the  art  or  all 
the  strength  of  man  or  man's  machinery  can  force  it  from  its 
bias,  or  make  it  straight  and  comely.  So  is  it  with  the  mind 
of  man,  Sir  Miles.  While  it  is  young  and  plastic,  you  shall 
direct  it  as  you  will — once  ripened,  hardened  in  its  growth, 
whether  that  growth  be  tortuous  or  true,  as  soon  shall  you  re 
model  the  stature  of  the  earth-fast  oak,  as  change  its  intellec 
tual  bias.  But  I  am  wearying  you,  I  fancy,  and  wasting  words 
in  unavailing  disquisition.  I  hear  my  uncle's  step  without, 
moreover  ;  permit  me,  I  will  join  him." 

"  Hold  yet  a  moment,"  replied  the  old  man,  kindly,  "  and  let 
me  say  this  to  you  now,  while  we  are  alone,  which  I  may  per 
chance  lack  opportunity  to  say  hereafter.  Your  mother's  son, 
Denzil  Olifaunt — for  so  I  shall  ever  call  you,  and  so  by  his  last 
words  you  are  entitled  to  be  called  —  can  never  weary  me. 
Your  welfare  will  concern  me  ever — what  interests  you,  will 


JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

interest  me  always,  and  next  to  my  own  son  I  shall  hold  you 
nearest  and  dearest  to  this  old  heart  at  all  times.  Now  leave 
me  if  you  will — yet  hold !  tell  me  before  you  go,  what  I  am 
fain  to  learn  concerning  your  good  uncle  —  the  knowledge  shall 
perchance  save  painful  explanation,  perhaps  grave  misunder 
standing." 

"  All  that  I  know  is  at  your  service,"  answered  the  young 
man,  in  a  calmer  and  milder  tone  than  he  had  used  heretofore 
— for  he  was,  in  truth,  much  moved  and  softened  by  the  evi 
dent  feeling  of  the  old  cavalier  ;  "  but  let  me  thank  you  first  for 
your  kindly  offers,  which,  should  occasion  offer,  believe  me,  I 
will  test  as  frankly  as  you  have  made  them  nobly." 

To  his  latter  words  Miles  St.  Aubyn  made  no  answer,  except 
a  grave  inclination  of  his  head,  for  his  mind  was  pre-occupied 
now  by  thoughts  of  very  different  import — was  fixed,  indeed, 
on  days  long  passed,  and  on  old,  painful  memories." 

"  This  girl,"  he  said  at  length,  "  this  fair  young  girl  whom  I 
saw  here  last  night,  is  she  —  is  she  your  sister?  I  think  you 
had  a  sister — yet  this  fair  child  hath  not  Alicia's  hair,  nor  her 
eyes — who  is  she  ?" 

"  God  was  most  good  in  that,"  answered  the  seaman,  with 
much  feeling,  "  he  took  my  sister  to  himself,  even  before  my 
mother  pined  away.  A  man's  lot  is  hard  enough  who  is  the 
son  of  shame  —  a  woman's  is  intolerable  anguish.  Theresa  is 
my  uncle's  child — his  only  child.  His  love  for  her  is  almost 
idolatry,  and  were  it  altogether  so,  she  deserves  it  all.  Lo ! 
there  she  passes  by  the  casement — was  ever  fairer  face  or 
lovelier  figure  ?  and  yet  her  soul,  her  innocent  and  artless  soul, 
has  beauties  that  as  far  surpass  those  personal  charms,  as  they 
exceed  all  other  earthly  loveliness." 

"  You  love  her,"  said  the  cavalier,  looking  quickly  upward, 
for  he  had  been  musing  with  downcast  eyes,  while  Denzil 
spoke,  and  had  not  even  raised  his  lids  to  gaze  upon  Theresa 


THE    TJNAVOWED    PASSION.  209 

as  she  passed  through  the  garden.  "  You  love  this  innocent 
and  gentle  child." 

The  young  man's  cheek  burned  crimson,  ashamed  that  he 
should  have  revealed  himself  so  completely  to  one  who  was 
almost  a  stranger.  But  he  was  not  one  to  deny  or  disguise  a 
single  feeling  of  his  heart,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  and  he 
replied,  after  a  moment's  pause,  with  an  unfaltering  and  steady 
voice,  "  I  do  love  her,  more  than  my  own  soul !" 

"  And  she,"  asked  the  old  knight,  "  does  she  know,  does  she 
return  your  affection  ?" 

Again  the  sailor  hesitated  ;  "  Women,  they  say,"  he  replied, 
at  length,  "  know  always  by  a  natural  instinct  when  they  are 
beloved,  and  therefore  I  believe  she  knows  it.  For  the  rest, 
she  is  always  most  affectionate,  most  gentle,  nay,  even  tender. 
Further  than  this,  I  may  not  judge." 

"  Father,"  exclaimed  a  faint  voice  from  the  bed,  at  this  mo 
ment.  "  Is  that  you,  father  ?"  and  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  opened 
his  eyes,  languid  yet  from  the  heavy  slumber  into  which  the 
opiate  had  cast  him,  and  raised  himself  up  a  little  on  his  pillow, 
though  with  a  slow  and  painful  motion. 

"  My  son,"  cried  the  old  man,  hurrying  to  the  side  of  the  bed, 
"  my  own  boy,  Jasper,  how  fare  you  now  ?  You  have  slept 
well." 

"  So  well,"  answered  the  bold  boy,  "  that  I  feel  strong 
enough,  and  clear  enough  in  the  head,  to  be  up  and  about ;  but 
that  whenever  I  would  move  a  limb,  there  comes  an  accursed 
twinge  to  put  me  in  mind  that  limestone  rock  is  harder  than 
bone  and  muscle." 

Meanwhile,  as  soon  as  the  old  cavalier's  attention  was  di 
verted  by  the  awakening  of  his  own  son  from  his  trance-like 
slumber,  Denzil  Bras-de-fer,  as  he  called  himself,  and  as  I 
shall  therefore  call  him,  left  the  room  quietly,  and  a  few  min 
utes  afterward  might  have  been  seen,  had  not  the  eyes  of  those 

18* 


210  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

within  the  chamber  been  otherwise  directed,  to  pass  the  case 
ment,  following  the  same  path  which  had  been  taken  by  The 
resa  Allan  a  little  while  before. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    LOVESUIT. 

"  He  either  fears  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  would  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  win,  or  lose  it  all. — MOXTROSE. 

THE  morning  .was  still  very  young,  and  the  sun  which  was 
but  just  beginning  to  rise  above  the  brow  of  the  eastern  hill, 
poured  his  long,  yellow  rays,  full  of  a  million  dusty  motes,  in 
almost  level  lines  down  the  soft,  green  slopes,  diversified  by 
hundreds  of  cool  purple  shadows,  projected  far  and  wide  over 
the  laughing  landscape,  from  every  tree  and  bush  that  inter 
cepted  the  mild  light. 

The  dews  of  the  preceding  night  still  clustered  unexhaled, 
sparkling  like  diamonds  to  the  morning  beams,  on  every  leaf 
and  flower  ;  a  soft  west  wind  was  playing  gently  with  the  thou 
sands  of  bright  buds  and  blossoms  which  decked  the  pleasant 
gardens  ;  and  the  whole  air  was  perfumed  with  the  delicate  fra 
grance  of  the  mignionette  and  roses,  which  filled  the  luxuriant 
parterres.  The  hum  of  the  revelling  bees  came  to  the  ear 
with  a  sweet,  domestic  sound,  and  the  rich  carol  of  the  black 
bird  and  the  thrush  came  swelling  from  the  tangled  shrubbe 
ries,  full  fraught  with  gratitude  and  glee. 

It  was  into  such  a  scene,  and  among  such  sights  and  sounds, 
that  the  young  free-trader  wandered  forth  from  the  tranquillity 
and  gloom  of  the  sick  chamber  in  which  he  had  spent  a  sleep- 


THE    CHILD    OF    SHAME.  211 

less  night ;  but  his  mind  had  been  too  deeply  stirred  by  his  con 
versation  with  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn,  and  chords  of  too  powerful 
feeling  had  been  thrilled  into  sudden  and  painful  life,  to  allow 
him  to  be  penetrated,  as  he  might  have  been  in  a  less  agitated 
hour,  by  the  sweet  influences  of  the  time  and  season. 

Still,  though  he  was  unconscious  of  the  pleasant  sights  and 
sounds  and  smells  which  surrounded  him,  as  he  strolled  slowly 
through  the  bowery  walks  of  the  old  garden,  they  had  more  or 
less  effect  upon  his  perturbed  and  bitter  spirit ;  and  his  mood 
became  gradually  softer,  as  he  mused  upon  what  had  passed 
within  the  last  hour,  alone  in  that  bright  solitude. 

Wild  and  impetuous  and  almost  fierce  by  nature,  he  had 
brooded  from  his  very  boyhood  upward  over  his  real  and  ima 
ginary  wrongs,  until  the  iron  had  so  deeply  pierced  his  soul, 
that  he  could  see  nothing  but  coldness,  and  hostility,  and  per 
secution,  in  the  conduct  of  all  around  him,  with  the  exception 
of  his  old  student  uncle  and  his  sweet  Theresa.  Ever  suspect 
ing,  ever  anticipating  injury  and  insult,  or  at  least  coldness  and 
repulsion  from  all  with  whom  he  was  brought  into  contact,  he 
actually  generated  in  the  breasts  of  others  the  feelings,  which 
he  imputed  to  them  all  unjustly.  Accusing  the  world  of  injus 
tice  or  ere  it  was  unjust,  in  the  end  he  made  it  to  be  so  indeed; 
and  then  hated  it,  and  railed  against  it,  for  that  which  it  had 
never  dreamed  of,  but  for  his  own  fantastic  waywardness. 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Denzil,  that  the  good  man,  into  whose 
care  he  had  fallen,  ever  of  a  philosophical  and  studious,  nay, 
even  mystic  disposition,  had  become,  since  the  sad  fate  of  his 
beloved  sister,  and  the  early  death  of  a  yet  dearer  wife,  so 
wholly  visionary,  so  entirely  given  up  to  the  wildest  theorizing, 
the  most  abstruse  and  abstract  metaphysical  inquiries,  that  no 
one  could  have  been  devised  less  fitting  for  the  guardian  and 
instructor  of  a  high-spirited,  hot-headed,  fiery  boy  than  he  was. 

The  consequence  of  this  was,  as  it  might  have  been  expected, 


212  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

that  disgusted  early  with  the  strange  sorts  of  learning  which 
the  old  man  persisted  in  forcing  into  him  against  the  grain,  and 
discontented  with  the  stillness  and  deathlike  tranquillity  of  all 
around  him,  the  boy  ran  away  from  his  distasteful  home,  and 
shipped  for  the  India  voyage  in  a  free-trader,  half  merchant 
man,  half-picaroon,  before  he  had  yet  attained  his  thirteenth 
year.  In  that  wild  and  turbulent  career,  well  suited  to  his 
daring  and  contemptuous  spirit,  he  had,  as  he  himself  ex 
pressed  it,  become  hardened  and  inured,  not  to  toils  and  suf 
ferings  only,  but  to  thoughts  and  feelings,  habits  and  opinions, 
which  perhaps  now  could  never  be  eradicated  from  his  nature, 
of  which  they  had  become,  as  it  were,  part  and  parcel. 

When  he  returned,  well  nigh  a  man  of  years,  quite  a  man  in 
stature,  and  perhaps  more  than  most  men  in  courage,  resource, 
coolness,  and  audacity,  old  Allan,  to  whom  he  had  written  once 
or  twice,  apprizing  him  that  he  had  adopted  the  sea  as  his 
home  and  his  profession,  received  him  with  a  hearty  welcome, 
and  with  few  or  no  inquiries  as  to  the  period  during  which  he 
had  been  absent. 

Thereafter,  he  came  and  went  as  he  would,  unasked  and  un 
heeded.  When  he  was  ashore,  the  cottage  by  the  fords  of 
Widecomb  was  his  home  ;  and  his  increasing  wealth  —  for  he 
had  prospered  greatly  in  his  adventurous  career — added  mate 
rially  to  the  comforts  of  old  Allan's  housekeeping.  His  life 
was,  therefore,  spent  in  strange  alternations ;  now  amid  the 
wildest  excitement — the  storm,  the  chase,  the  fierce  and  frantic 
speculation,  the  perilous  and  desperate  fight,  the  revelry,  the 
triumph,  and  the  booty ;  and  now,  in  the  calmest  and  most 
peaceful  solitude,  amid  the  sweetest  pastoral  scenery,  and  with 
the  loveliest  and  most  innocent  companion  that  ever  soothed  the 
hot  and  eager  spirit  of  erring  and  impetuous  man,  into  almost 
woman's  softness. 
.  And  hence  it  was,  perhaps,  that  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  had,  as 


THE    DARING    FREE-TRADERS.  213 

it  were,  two  different  natures  —  one  fierce,  rash,  bitter,  scorn 
ful,  heedless  of  human  praise  or  human  censure,  pitiless  to  hu 
man  sorrow,  reckless  of  human  life,  merciless,  almost  cruel  — 
the  other  generous,  and  soft,  and  sympathetic,  and  full  of  every 
good  and  gentle  impulse. 

And  it  was  in  the  latter  of  these  only,  that  Theresa  Allan 
knew  him. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  from  what  I  have  written,  that  Den- 
zil  was  a  pirate,  or  a  buccaneer — far  from  it.  For  though,  at 
times,  he  and  his  comrades  assumed  the  initiative  in  warfare, 
and  smote  the  Spaniards,  and  the  Dutchmen,  arid  the  French, 
unsparingly,  beyond  the  line,  and  made  but  small  distinction 
between  the  mourn  and  the  tuum,  especially  if  the  tuum  per 
tained  to  the  stranger  and  the  papist,  still  neither  public  opin 
ion,  nor  their  own  consciences  condemned  them — they  were 
regarded,  as  Cavendish,  and  Raleigh,  and  Drake,  and  Fro- 
bisher,  and  Hawkins,  had  been,  a  reign  or  two  before,  as  bold, 
headlong  adventurers  ;  perhaps  a  little  lawless,  but  on  the  whole, 
noble  and  daring  men,  and  were  esteemed  in  general  rather  an 
ornament  than  a  disgrace  to  their  native  land. 

As  men  are  esteemed  of  men,  such  they  are  very  apt  to  be 
or  to  become ;  and,  having  the  repute  of  chivalrous  spirit,  of 
generosity  and  worth,  no  less  than  of  dauntless  courage,  and 
rare  seamanship,  the  adventurous  free-traders  of  that  day  held 
themselves  to  be,  in  all  respects,  gentlemen,  and  men  of  honor; 
and  holding  themselves  so,  for  the  most  part  they  became  so. 

It  was,  therefore,  by  no  means  either  wonderful  or  an  excep 
tion  to  a  rule,  that  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  should  have  been  such  as 
I  have  described  him,  awake  to  gentle  impulses,  alive  to  good 
impressions,  easily  subject  to  the  influences  of  the  finest  female 
society,  and  in  no  respect  a  person  from  either  his  habits,  his 
tastes,  or  his  profession,  to  be  rejected  by  men  of  honor,  or  es 
chewed  by  women  of  refinement. 


214  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

And  now,  as  he  followed  slowly  on  the  steps  of  his  beautiful 
cousin,  the  young  man  was  more  alive  than  usual  to  the  higher 
and  nobler  sensibilities  of  his  mind.  The  information  which 
he  had  gained  concerning  his  own  father's  feelings,  at  the  mo 
ment  of  his  death,  had  greatly  softened  him,  and  it  began  to 
occur  to  him — which  was,  indeed  true — that,  he  might  have 
been  during  his  whole  life  conjuring  up  phantoms  against  wThich 
to  do  battle,  and  attributing  thoughts  and  actions  to  the  world  at 
large,  of  which  the  world  might  well  be  wholly  innocent. 

Up  to  this  moment,  although  he  had  long  been  aware  of  his 
constantly  increasing  passion  for  his  fair  cousin,  he  had  rested 
content  with  the  mild  and  sisterlike  affection  which  she  had 
ever  manifested  toward  him  ;  and,  having  been  ever  her  sole 
companion,  ever  treated  with  most  perfect  confidence  and  sym 
pathy,  having  found  her  at  all  times  charmed  to  greet  his  re 
turn,  and  grieved  at  his  departure  ;  knowing,  above  all  things, 
that  at  the  worst  he  had  no  rival,  and  that  her  heart  had  never 
been  touched  by  any  warmer  passion  than  she  felt  toward  him 
self,  he  had  scarcely  paused  to  inquire  even  of  himself,  whether 
he  was  beloved  in  turn,  much  less  had  he  endeavored  to  pene 
trate  the  secrets  of  her  heart,  or  to  disturb  the  calm  tenor  of 
her  way  by  words  or  thoughts  of  passion. 

Now,  however,  the  words,  the  questions  of  the  old  cavalier 
had  awakened  many  a  doubt  in  his  soul ;  and  with  the  doubt 
came  the  desire  irrepressible  to  envisage  his  fate,  to  learn  and 
ascertain,  once  and  for  all,  whether  his  lot  was  to  be  cast  hence 
forth  in  joy  or  in  sorrow ;  whether,  in  a  word,  he  was  to  be  a 
wanderer  and  an  outcast,  by  sea  and  land,  unto  his  dying  day, 
or  whether  this  very  hour  was  to  be  to  him  the  commencement 
of  a  new  era,  a  new  life. 

Now,  as  he  walked  forth  in  the  beautiful  calm  morning,  in 
that  old,  pleasant  garden,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so 
much  peaceable  and  innocent  enjoyment,  he  felt  himself  at  once 


A    SADDER    BUT    A    BETTER    MAN.  215 

a  sadder  and  a  better  man  than  he  had  ever  been  before  ;  and 
while  determined  to  delay  no  longer,  but  to  try  his  gentle  cous 
in's  heart,  he  was  supported  by  no  high  and  fiery  hope.  He 
seemed  to  have  lost,  he  knew  not  how  or  wherefore,  that  proud, 
heaven-reaching  confidence,  which  was  wont  to  count  all  things 
won  while  they  were  yet  to  win ;  still  less  did  his  heart  kindle 
and  blaze  out  with  that  preconceived  indignation  at  the  idea  of 
being  unappreciated  or  neglected,  which  would  a  few  hours  be 
fore  have  goaded  him  almost  to  frenzy. 

I  have  written  much  of  his  character  to  little  purpose,  if  it 
be  not  plain  that  humility  -was  the  frame  of  mind  least  usual  to 
the  youthful  seaman,  yet  now,  for  once,  he  was  humble.  He 
had  discovered,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  he  had  erred 
grossly  in  his  estimate  of  others,  and  was  beginning  to  suspect 
that  that  false  estimate  had  led  him  far  away  from  true  princi 
ples,  true  conceptions  ;  he  was  beginning,  in  a  word,  to  suspect 
that  he  was  himself  less  sinned  against  than  sinning ;  and  that 
his  was,  in  fact,  a  very  much  misguided  and  distempered  spirit. 

He  clasped  his  brow  closely  with  a  feverish  and  trembling 
hand,  as  he  walked  onward  slowly,  pondering,  with  his  whole 
soul  intent  upon  the  future  and  the  past.  He  was  inquiring  of 
himself,  "  Does  she,  can  she  love  me  ?"  and  he  could  make  no 
answer  to  his  own  passionate  questioning.  While  he  was  in 
this  mood,  bending  his  steps  toward  the  favorite  bower  wherein 
he  half  hoped  half  feared  to  find  Theresa,  a  soft  voice  fell  up 
on  his  ear,  and  a  light  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm,  as  he  passed 
the  intersection  of  another  shady  walk  with  that  through  which 
he  was  strolling. 

"  Good-morrow,  Denzil,"  said  the  young  girl  merrily.  "  I 
never  thought  to  see  you  out  so  early  in  the  garden ;  but  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  here,  for  I  want  you.  So  come  along  with 
me  at  once,  and  tell  me  if  it  be  not  a  nest  of  young  nightingales 
which  I  have  found  in  the  thick  syringa-bush  beside  my  arbor. 


216  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

Come,  Denzil,  don't  you  hear  me  ?  Why,  what  ails  you,  that 
you  look  so  sad,  and  move  so  heavily  this  glorious  summer 
morning  ?  You  are  not  ill,  are  you,  dear  Denzil  ?" 

"  Dear  Denzil,"  he  repeated,  in  a  low,  subdued  tone.  "  Dear 
Denzil !  I  would  to  God  that  I  were  dear  to  you,  Theresa — 
that  I  were  dear  to  any  one." 

So  singular  was  the  desponding  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  so 
strange  and  unwonted  was  the  cloud  of  deep  depression  which 
sat  on  his  bold,  intelligent  brow,  that  the  young  girl  stared  at 
him  in  amazement,  almost  in  alarm. 

"  You  are  ill,"  she  cried,  in  tones  of  affectionate  anxiety  ; 
"  you  must  be  ill,  or  you  would  never  speak  so  strangely,  so 
unkindly  ;  or  is  it  only  that  you  are  overdone  with  watching  by 
that  poor  youth's  sick  bed  ?  Yet  no,  no,  that  can  never  be,  you 
who  are  so  strong  and  so  hardy.  What  is  it,  dearest  cousin  ? 
Tell  me,  what  is  it  makes  you  speak  so  wildly? — would  that 
you  were  dear  to  me  !  Avhy,  if  not  you,  you  and  my  good,  kind 
father,  who  on  the  face  of  the  wide  earth  is  dear  to  poor  The 
resa  !  That  you  were  dear  to  any  one  !  You,  whom  my  fa 
ther  looks  upon  and  loves  as  his  own  son ;  you,  whose  com 
panions  hold  as  almost  more  than  mortal — for  have  I  not 
marked  the  inscriptions  on  your  sabre's  guard,  arid  on  the  tele 
scope  they  gave  you  ?  You,  who  have  saved  the  lives  of  so 
many  fellow-mortals  ;  you,  to  whom  those  ladies,  rescued  at 
Darien  from  the  bloodthirsty  Spaniards,  addressed  such  glow 
ing  words  of  gratitude  arid  love  ;  you,  Cousin  Denzil,  you,  who 
are  so  great,  so  brave,  so  wise,  so  skilful,  and  above  all,  so  gen 
erous  and  kind  ;  you  talk  of  wishing  you  were  dear  to  any  one  ! 
Good  sooth  !  you  must  be  dreaming,  or  you  are  bewitched,  gen 
tle  Denzil." 

"  If  I  be,"  he  replied  with  a  smile,  for  her  high  spirits  and 
gay  enthusiasm  aroused  him  from  his  gloomier  thoughts,  and 


THE    LOVE    OF    THERESA.  217 

began  to  enkindle  brighter  hopes  in  his  bosom,  "  if  I  be,  thou, 
Theresa,  art  the  enchantress  who  has  done  it." 

"Ay!  now  you  are  more  like  yourself;  but  tell  me,"  she 
said,  caressingly,  "  what  was  it  made  you  sad  and  dark  but 
now  ?" 

"  Only  this,  dear  Theresa,  that  I  am  again  about  to  leave 
you." 

"  To  leave  us — to  leave  us  so  soon  and  so  suddenly.  Why 
you  have  been  here  but  three  little  weeks,  which  have  passed 
like  so  many  days,  and  when  you  came  you  said  that  you  would 
stay  with  us  till  autumn.  Oh,  dear !  my  father  will  be  so 
grieved  at  your  going.  You  do  not  know,  you  do  not  dream 
how  much  he  loves  you,  Denzil.  He  is  a  different  person  alto 
gether  when  you  are  at  home  —  so  much  gayer,  and  more  so 
ciable  !  Oh  !  wherefore  must  you  leave  us  so  quickly,  and  af 
ter  so  long  an  absence,  too,  as  your  last  ?  Oh,  truly,  it  is  un 
kind,  Denzil." 

"  And  you,  Theresa,  shall  you  be  sorry  ?" 

"  I  will  not  answer  you,"  she  replied,  half-petulantly,  half- 
tearfully.  "  It  is  unkind  of  you  to  go,  and  doubly  unkind  to 
speak  to  me  thus.  What  have  I  done  to  you  now,  what  have  I 
ever  done  to  you,  that  you  should  doubt  my  being  sorry  ?  Are 
not  you  the  only  friend,  the  only  companion  I  have  got  in  the 
wide  world  ?  Are  you  not  as  near  and  dear  to  me,  as  if  you 
were  my  own  brother  ?  Do  not  I  love  you  as  my  brother,  even 
as  my  father  loves  you  as  his  son?  Ah,  Denzil!  if  you  are 
never  less  loved  than  you  are  by  poor  Theresa  Allan,  you  will 
ne'er  need  to  complain  for  lack  of  loving." 

And  she  burst  into  tears  as  she  ended  her  rapid  speech ;  for 
she  did  not  comprehend  in  the  least  at  what  he  was  aiming,  and 
her  innocent  and  artless  heart  was  wounded  by  what  she  fan 
cied  to  be  a  doubt  of  her  affection. 

"  And  if  you  feel  so  deeply  the  mere  temporary  absence 
19 


218 


JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 


which  my  profession  forces  on  me,  Theresa,  how  think  you, 
should  you  feel  were  that  absence  to  be  eternal  ?" 

"  Eternal !"  she  exclaimed,  turning  very  pale.  "  Eternal ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  eternal  ?" 

"  It  may  well  be  so,  Theresa  ;  and  yet  it  rests  with  yourself, 
after  all,  whether  I  go  or  not — and  yet  be  sure  of  this,  if  I  do 
go,  I  go  for  ever." 

"With  me  —  does  it  rest  with  me?"  she  cried,  joyously. 
"  Oh !  if  it  rests  with  me,  you  will  not  go  at  all — you  will 
never  go  any  more.  I  am  always  in  terror  while  you  are  ab 
sent  ;  and  the  west  wind  never  blows,  howling  as  it  does  over 
these  desolate,  bare  hills,  with  its  mournful,  moaning  voice, 
which  they  say  is  the  very  sound  of  a  spirit's  cry,  but  it  con 
jures  up  to  my  mind  all  dread  ideas  of  the  tremendous  rush 
and  roar  of  the  mountain  billows  upon  some  rock-bound,  lee 
ward  coast,  as  I  have  heard  you  tell  by  the  cheerful  hearth  ; 
and  of  stranded  vessels,  creaking  and  groaning  as  their  huge 
ribs  break  asunder,  and  of  corpses  weltering  on  the  ruthless 
waves  ;  oh !  such  dread  day-dreams  !  If  it  rest  with  me,  go 
you  shall  not,  Denzil,  ever  again  to  sea.  And  why  should  you  ? 
You  have  won  fame  enough,  and  glory  and  wealth  more  than 
enough  to  supply  your  wants  as  long  as  you  live.  Why  should 
you  go  to  sea  again,  dear  Denzil  ?" 

"  I  will  not  go  again,  Theresa,  if  such  seriously  be  your  de 
liberate  desire." 

"  If  such  seriously  be  my  deliberate  desire  !"  the  fair  girl  re 
peated  the  words  after  him  with  a  sort  of  half-solemn  drollery. 
Was  it  the  native  instinct  of  the  female  heart,  betraying  itself 
in  that  innocent  and  artless  creature,  scarcely  in  years  more 
than  a  child — the  inborn,  irrepressible  coquetry  of  the  sex,  fore 
seeing  what  was  about  to  follow  from  the  young  man's  lips,  yet 
seeking  all  unconsciously  to  delay  the  avowal,  to  protract  the 
uncertainty,  the  excitement,  or  was  it  genuine,  unsuspecting  in- 


A    MISAPPREHENSION.  219 

nocence  ?  "  You  are  most  singularly  solemn,"  she  continued, 
"  this  fine  morning,  Denzil,  wondrously  serious  and  deliberate  ; 
and  so,  as  you  are  so  precise,  I  must,  I  suppose,  answer  you 
likewise,  in  due  set  form.  Of  course,  it  is  my  desire  to  have 
the  company  of  one  whom  I  esteem  and  love,  of  one  to  whom 
I  look  up  for  countenance  and  protection,  of  my  only  relative 
on  earth,  except  my  dear  old  father,  as  much  as  I  can  have  it, 
with  due  regard  to  his  interests  and  well-being.  My  father  is 
getting  very  old,  too,  and  infirm  ;  and  at  times  I  fancy  that  his 
mind  wanders.  I  can  not  fail,  therefore,  to  perceive  that  he 
needs  a  more  able  and  energetic  person  near  him  than  I  am. 
I  can,  moreover,  see  no  good  cause  why  you  should  persist  in 
following  so  perilous  and  stormy  a  profession,  unless  it  be  that 
you  love  it.  Therefore,  as  I  have  said,  of  course,  if  it  rest  with 
me  to  detain  you,  I  would  do  so — but  always  under  this  pro 
viso,  that  it  were  with  your  own  good  will ;  for  I  confess,  dear 
Denzil,  that  I  fear,  if  you  were  detained  against  your  wish,  if 
you  still  pant  for  the  strong  excitement,  the  stormy  rapture,  as 
I  have  heard  you  call  it,  of  the  chase,  the  battle,  and  the  tem 
pest,  you  never  could  be  happy  here,  whatever  we  might  do  to 
please  you.  Now,  Denzil,  seriously  and  deliberately,  you  are 
answered." 

"  I  could  be  happy  here.  I  am  weary  of  agitation  and  ex 
citement.  I  feel  that  I  have  erred — that  the  path  I  have  taken 
leads  not  to  happiness.  I  want  tranquillity,  repose  of  the  heart, 
above  all  things  —  love  !" 

"  Then  do  not  go  —  then  I  say  positively,  Denzil,  dear  Den 
zil,  stay  with  us — you  can  find  all  these  here." 

"  Are  you  sure  —  all  of  them?" 

"  Sure  ?  Why,  if  not  here  in  this  delicious,  pastoral,  simple 
country,  in  this  dear  cottage,  with  its  lovely  garden  and  calm 
waters,  where  in  the  world  should  you  find  tranquillity  ?  If 


220  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

not  here,  in  the  midst  of  your  best  friends,  in  the  bosom  of 
your  own  family,  where  should  you  look  for  love  ?" 

"  Theresa,  there  be  more  kinds  of  love  than  one  —  and  that 
I  crave  is  not  cold,  duteous,  family  affection." 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  it  seemed  that  the  young  man's  mean 
ing  broke  clearly  upon  her  mind  ;  now  a  sudden  and  bright  il 
lumination  burst  upon  all  that  seemed  strange,  and  wild,  and 
inconsistent  in  'his  conduct,  in  his  speech,  in  his  very  silence. 
Unsuspected  before,  it  was  now  evident  to  her  at  once  that 
deep,  overmastering  passion  was  the  cause  to  which  she  must 
refer  all  that  had  been,  for  some  time  past,  to  her  an  incompre 
hensible  enigma  in  her  cousin's  demeanor. 

And  now  that  she  was  assured,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
that  she  was  really,  deeply,  ardently  beloved — not  as  a  pretty, 
childish  playmate,  not  as  an  amiable  and  dear  relative,  but  as 
herself,  for  herself,  a  loveable  and  lovely  woman,  how  did  the 
maiden's  heart  respond  to  the  great  revelation  ? 

Elevated  on  the  instant  from  the  girl  to  the  woman,  a  strange 
and  thrilling  sense,  a  sort  of  moral  shock  affected  her  whole 
system — was  it  of  pleasure  or  of  pain? 

It  has  been  often  said,  and  I  presume  said  truly,  that  no  wo 
man — no,  not  the  best  and  purest,  the  most  modest  and  consid 
erate  of  their  sex — ever  received  a  declaration  of  love  from  any 
man,  even  if  the  man  himself  be  distasteful  to  her,  even  if  the 
love  he  proffer  be  illicit  and  dishonest,  without  a  secret  and  in 
stinctive  sense  of  high  gratification,  a  consciousness  of  power, 
of  triumph,  a  pride  in  the  homage  paid  to  her  charms,  a  sort  of 
gratitude  for  the  tribute  rendered  to  her  sex's  loveliness.  She 
may,  and  will,  repulse  the  dishonorable  love  with  scorn  and 
loathing,  yet  still,  though  she  may  spurn  the  worthless  offering, 
and  heap  reproach  upon  the  daring  offerer,  still  she  will  be  half 
pleased  by  the  offer  —  if  it  be  only  that  she  has  had  the  power, 
the  pleasure — for  all  power  is  pleasure — of  rejecting  it.  She 


A    FIRST    DECLARATION.  221 

may,  and  will,  gently,  considerately,  sympathetically  decline 
the  honest  offers  of  a  pure  love  which  she  can  not  reciprocate 
or  value  as  it  should  be  valued ;  but  even  if  he  who  made  the 
tender  be  repulsive,  almost  odious,  still  she  must  be  gratified, 
perhaps  almost  grateful  for  that  which  he  has  done. 

To  a  young  girl  more  especially,  just  bursting  from  the  bud 
into  the  bloom  of  young  womanhood,  scarce  conscious  yet  that 
she  is  a  woman,  scarcely  awake  to  the  sense  of  her  own  pow 
ers,  her  own  passions  —  a  creature  full  of  vague,  shadowy,  mys 
terious  fancies,  strange,  uncomprehended  thoughts,  and  half- 
perceived  desires,  there  is — there  must  be  —  something  of  won 
drous  influence,  of  indescribable  excitement,  in  the  receiving  a 
first  declaration. 

And  so  it  was  with  Theresa  Allan.  She  was,  in  truth,  no 
angel — for  angels  are  not  to  be  met  with  in  the  daily  walks  of 
this  world — she  was,  indeed,  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  mere 
mortal  woman,  mortal  in  all  the  imperfection,  and  narrowness, 
and  feebleness,  and  inability  to  rise  even  to  the  height  of  its 
own  best  aspirations,  which  are  peculiar  to  mortality — woman 
in  all  the  frailty,  and  vanity,  and  variety,  no  less  than  in  all  the 
tenderness,  the  truth,  the  constancy,  the  loveliness,  the  sweet 
ness  of  true  womanhood.  She  was,  in  a  word,  just  what  a 
great  modern  poet  has  described  in  those  sweet  lines  : — 

"  A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles." 

And  no  one  who  is  a  true  judge  of  human  nature,  and  yet  more 
of  woman's  nature,  will  regret  that  she  was  such  ;  for  he  must  be 
a  poor  judge  indeed,  he  must  know  little  of  the  real  character 
of  womanhood,  who  does  not  feel  that  one  half  of  her  best  in 
fluences,  one  half  of  her  sweetest  power  of  charming,  soothing, 
controlling,  winding,  herself  about  the  very  heart-strings,  arises 

19* 


JASPER    ST,    AUBYN. 

from  her  very  imperfections.  Take  from  her  these,  and  what 
she  might  then  be  we  know  not,  but  she  would  not  be  woman,  and 
until  the  world  has  seen  something  better  and  more  endearing, 
until  a  wiser  artificer  can  be  found  than  HE  who  made  her, 
even  as  she  is,  a  help  meet  for  man — away  with  your  abstrac 
tions  !  give  her  to  us  as  she  is,  at  least,  if  not  perfect,  the  best 
and  brightest  of  created  things  —  a  very,  very  woman. 

She  heard  his  words,  she  felt  his  meaning,  yet  the  sense  of 
the  words  seemed  to  be  lost,  the  very  sounds  rang  in  her  ears 
dizzily,  her  breath  came  so  painfully  that  she  almost  fancied 
she  was  choking,  the  earth  appeared  to  shake  under  her  feet, 
and  everything  around  her  to  wheel  drunkenly  to  and  fro. 

She  pressed  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  aud  caught  her  cous 
in's  arm  with  the  other  to  support  herself.  Her  whole  face, 
which  a  moment  before  had  been  alive  and  radiant  with  the 
warm  hues  of  happiness  and  youth,  became  as  white  as  marble. 
Her  very  lips  were  bloodless  ;  her  whole  frame  trembled  as  if 
she  had  an  ague-fit. 

He  gazed  on  her  in  wonder,  almost  in  terror.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  thought  she  was  about  to  faint,  almost  to  die  ;  and  so 
violent,  in  truth,  was  the  affection  of  her  nerves,  that,  had  she 
not  been  relieved  by  a  sudden  passion  of  tears,  it  is  doubtful 
what  might  have  been  the  result. 

They  were  standing,  when  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  uttered  the 
words  which  had  wrought  so  singular  a  change  in  Theresa's 
manner,  within  a  pace  or  two  of  the  sylvan  bower  of  which  she 
had  spoken,  and  without  a  moment's  pause,  or  a  syllable  uttered, 
he  hurried  her  into  its  quiet  recess,  and  placing  her  gently  on 
the  mossy  seat  within,  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  holding  her  left 
hand  in  his  own,  and  gazing  up  anxiously  in  her  face. 

He  was  amazed — he  was  alarmed.  Not  for  himself  alone, 
not  from  the  selfish  fear  of  losing  what  he  most  prized  on  earth 
— but  for  her. 


AWAKENING    OF    A    NEW    LIFE.  223 

He  knew  not,  indeed,  whether  that  strange  and  almost  terrible 
revulsion  arose  from  pleasure  or  from  pain.  He  knew  not,  could 
not  even  conjecture  whether  it  boded  good  or  evil  to  his  hopes, 
to  his  happiness.  But  the  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes  in  an 
instant.  He  had  discovered  now,  what  her  old  father,  recogni 
zing  genius  with  the  intuitive  second-sight  of  kindred  genius, 
had  perceived  long  before,  that  this  young,  artless,  inexperi 
enced,  childlike  girl,  was,  indeed,  a  creature  wonderfully  and 
fearfully  made. 

He  had  never  before  suspected  that  beneath  that  calm,  gen 
tle,  tranquil,  unexcitable  exterior  there  beat  a  heart,  there 
thrilled  a  soul,  full  of  the  strongest  capabilities,  the  most  earnest 
aspirations,  the  most  intense  imaginings,  that  ever  were  awa 
kened  by  the  magic  touch  of  love,  into  those  overwhelming 
passions,  which  can  tend  to  no  middle  state,  but  must  lead  to 
the  perfect  happiness  or  utter  misery  of  their  possessor. 

But  he  saw  it,  he  knew  it  now ;  and  he  felt  that  so  soon  as 
the  present  paroxysm  should  pass  over,  she  too,  would  feel  and 
know  all  this  likewise.  Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  for  weal 
or  for  wo,  he  perceived  that  he  had  unlocked  for  her  whom  he 
truly  and  singly  loved,  the  hitherto  sealed  fountain  of  knowledge. 

And  he  almost  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had  done 
—  he  almost  wished  that  he  had  stifled  his  own  wishes,  sacri 
ficed  his  own  hopes. 

For  though  impetuous  and  impulsive,  though  in  some  degree 
warped  and  perverted,  he  was  not  selfish.  And  when  he  ob 
served  the  terrible  power  which  his  words  had  produced  upon 
her,  and  judged  thence  of  the  character  and  temper  of  her  mind 
and  intellect,  a  sad  suspicion  fell  upon  him  that  hers  was  one 
of  those  over-delicate  temperaments,  one  of  those  spirits  too 
rarely  endowed,  too  sensitively  constituted,  ever  to  know  again, 
when  once  awakened  to  self-consciousness,  that  quietude,  in 
which  alone  lies  true  happiness. 


224  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

Several  minutes  passed  before  a  word  was  spoken  by  either. 
But  gradually  the  color  returned  to  her  lips,  to  her  cheeks,  and 
the  light  relumed  her  beautiful  blue  eyes,  and  the  tremor  passed 
away  from  her  slight  frame  ;  but  her  face  continued  motionless, 
and  so  calm  that  its  gravity  almost  amounted  to  severity.  It 
was  not  altogether  melancholy,  it  was  not  at  all  anger,  but  it  was, 
what  in  a  harder  and  less  youthful  face  would  have  been  stern 
ness.  Never  before  had  he  seen  such  an  expression  on  any 
human  face — never,  assuredly,  had  hers  worn  it  before.  It 
was  the  awakening  of  a  new  spirit — the  consciousness  of  a 
new  power — the  first  struggling  into  life  of  a  great  purpose. 

Her  hand  lay  passive  in  his  grasp,  yet  he  could  feel  the 
pulses  throbbing  to  the  very  tips  of  those  small,  rosy  fingers,  so 
strongly  and  tumultuously,  that  he  could  not  reconcile  such  ev 
idence  of  her  quick  and  lively  feeling  with  the  fixed  tranquilli 
ty  of  the  eye  which  was  bent  upon  his  own,  with  the  rigidity 
of  the  marble  brow. 

At  length,  and  contrary  to  what  is  wont  to'happen,  it  was  he 
who  first  broke  silence. 

"  Theresa,"  he  said,  "  I  have  grieved  —  I  have  pained — per 
haps  offended  you." 

And  then  she  started,  as  his  voice  smote  her  ears,  so  com 
plete  had  been  the  abstraction  of  her  mind,  and  recovering  all 
her  faculties  and  readiness  of  mind  on  the  instant. 

"  Yes,  Denzil,"  she  said,  very  sweetly,  but  very  sorrowfully, 
"  you  have  grieved  me,  you  have  pained  me,  very,  very  deeply  ; 
but  oh,  do  not  imagine  that  you  have  offended  me — that  you  could 
offend  me.  No  ;  you  have  torn  away  too  suddenly,  too  rough 
ly,  the  veil  that  covered  my  eyes  and  my  heart.  You  have 
awakened  thoughts,  and  feelings,  and  perceptions,  in  my  soul, 
of  whose  existence  I  never  dreamed  before.  You  have  made 
me  know  myself,  as  it  were,  better  within  the  last  few  minutes 
than  I  ever  knew  myself  before.  It  seems  to  me,  that  I  have 


A    STRANGE    SCENE.  225 

lived  longer  and  felt  more  since  we  have  sat  here  together,  than 
in  all  the  years  I  can  count  before.  And,  oh,  my  heart !  my 
heart !  I  am  most  unhappy  ! 

"  You  can  not  love  me,  then,  Theresa,"  he  said,  tranquilly  ; 
for  he  had  vast  self-control,  and  he  was  too  much  of  a  man  to 
suffer  his  own  agitation  or  distress  to  agitate  or  distress  her 
further.  "  You  can  not  love  me  as  I  would  be  loved  by  you 
— you  can  not  be  mine." 

"  Denzil,"  she  said,  in  tones  full  of  the  deepest  emotion, 
"  until  the  moment  in  which  you  spoke  to  me,  I  never  thought 
of  love  ;  I  never  dreamed  or  imagined  to  myself  what  it  should 
be,  other  than  the  love  I  bear  to  my  father,  to  you,  to  all  that  is 
kind,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  in  humanity  or  in  nature.  But 
your  words,  I  know  not  how  or  wherefore,  have  awakened  me, 
as  it  were,  into  a  strange  sort  of  knowledge.  I  do  not  love,  I 
almost  hope  that  I  never  may  love,  as  you  would  wish  me  to 
love  you  ;  but  I  do  feel  now  that  I  know  what  such  love  should 
be  ;  and  I  tremble  at  the  knowledge.  I  feel  that  it  would  be 
too  strong,  too  full  of  fear,  of  anxiety,  of  agony,  to  allow  of  hap 
piness.  Oh,  no,  no  !  Denzil,  do  not  ask  me,  do  not  wish  me 
to  love  y&u  so ;  pray  rather,  pray  for  me  to  God  rather,  that  I  may 
never  love  at  all  —  for  so  surely  as  I  do  love,  I  know  that  I  shall 
be  a  wretched,  wretched  woman  !" 

That  was  a  strange  scene,  and  it  passed  between  a  strange 
pair.  Great  influences  had  been  at  work  in  the  minds  of  both 
within  the  last  few  hours,  and  it  would  have  been  very  difficult 
to  say  in  which  the  greatest  change  had  been  wrought. 

In  her,  the  tranquil,  innocent,  unconscious  girl  had  been 
aroused  into  the  powerful,  passionate,  thoughtful  woman.  A 
knowledge  of  that  whereof  she  had  been  most  ignorant  before, 
"  her  glassy  essence,"  had  awakened  her,  as  the  breeze  awakens 
the  lake,  from  repose'  into  power. 

In  him,  the  violent,  hot-headed,  stubborn,  and  impetuous  man 


226  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

of  action,  had  been  tamed  down  by  a  conversion  almost  as  sud 
den  and  convincing  into  the  slow,  self-controlled,  self-denying 
man  of  counsel.  As  the  discovery  of  power  had  aroused  her 
into  life,  so  had  the  discovery  of  long-cherished,  long- injurious 
error,  tamed  him  into  tranquillity. 

One  day  ago  he  would  have  raved  furiously,  or  brooded  sul 
lenly  and  darkly  over  her  words.  Now,  even  with  the  fit  of 
passion  all-puissant  over  him,  with  the  wild  heat  of  love  burn 
ing  within  his  breast,  with  the  keen  sense  of  disappointment 
wringing  him,  he  had  yet  force  of  temper  to  control  himself, 
nay,  more,  he  had  force  of  mind  enough  to  see  and  apprehend, 
that  this  Theresa,  was  no  longer  the  Theresa  whom  he  loved  ; 
and  that,  although  he  still  adored  her,  it  was  impossible  either 
for  him  to  meet  the  aspirations  of  her  glowing  and  inspired 
genius,  or  for  her  to  be  to  him  what  he  had  dreamed  of,  the 
tranquillizing,  soothing  spirit  which  should  pour  balm  upon  his 
wounded,  restless,  irritable  feelings — the  wife,  whose  first,  best 
gift  to  him  should  be  repose  and  tranquillity  of  soul. 

He  pressed  her  hand  tenderly,  and  said,  as  he  might  have 
done  to  a  dear  sister. 

"  I  have  been  to  blame,  Theresa.  I  have  given  you  pain, 
rashly,  but  not  wantonly.  Forgive  me,  for  you  are  the  last  per 
son  in  the  world  to  whom  I  would  give  even  a  moment's  unea 
siness.  I  did  not  suspect  this,  dear,  little  girl.  I  did  not  dream 
that  you  were  so  nervous,  or  moved  so  easily ;  but  you  must 
not  yield  to  such  feelings  —  such  impulses  —  for  it  is  only  by 
yielding  to  them  that  they  will  gain  power  over  you,  and  make 
you,  indeed,  an  unhappy  woman.  You  shall  see,  Theresa,  how 
patiently  I  will  bear  my  disappointment — for  that  it  is  a  disap 
pointment,  and  a  very  bitter  one,  I  shall  not  deny — and  ho\^I 
will  be  happy  in  spite  of  it,  and  all  for  love  of  you.  And  in 
return,  Theresa,  if  you  love  poor  Denzil,  as  you  say  you  do,  as 
your  true  friend  and  your  brother,  you  will  control  these  foolish 


DISSIPATION    OF    A    PLEASANT    DREAM.  227 

fancies  of  your  little  head,  which  you  imagine  to  be  feelings  of 
your  heart,  and  I  shall  one  day,  I  doubt  not,  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  not  only  a  very  happy  woman,  but  a  very  happy 
wife." 

"  Oh,  you  are  good,  Denzil,"  she  said,  tearfully  and  gently. 
"  Oh,  you  are  very  good  and  noble.  Why — why  can  not  I — " 
and  she  interrupted  herself  suddenly,  and  covering  her  eyes 
with  both  her  hands,  wept  silently  and  softly  for  several  min 
utes.  And  he  spoke  not  to  her  the  while,  nor  even  sought  to 
soothe,  for  he  well  knew  that  tears  were  the  best  solace  to  an 
over-wrought,  over-excited  spirit. 

After  a  little  while,  as  he  expected,  she  recovered  herself 
altogether,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  a  wan  and  watery 
smile  — 

"  You  are  not  hurt,  you  are  not  wounded  by  what  I  have 
done,"  she  said,  "  dear  Denzil.  You  do  not  fancy  that  I  do  not 
perceive,  do  not  feel,  and  esteem,  and  love  all  your  great,  and 
good,  and  generous,  and  noble  qualities.  I  am  a  foolish,  weak, 
little  girl  —  I  am  not  worthy  of  you;  I  could  not,  I  know  I 
could  not  make  you  happy,  even  if  I  could — if  I  could — if — 
you  know  what  I  \vould  say,  Denzil." 

"  If  you  could  be  happy  with  me  yourself,"  he  answered, 
smiling  in  his  turn,  and  without  an  effort,  although  his  smile 
was  pensive  and  sad  likewise.  "  No,  my  Theresa,  I  am  not 
hurt  or  wounded.  I  am  grieved,  it  is  true,  I  can  not  but  be 
grieved  at  the  dissipating  of  a  pleasant  dream,  at  the  vanishing 
of  a  hope  long-indulged,  long-cherished  —  a  hope  which  has 
been  a  solace  to  me  in  many  a  moment  of  pain  and  trial,  a 
sweet  companion  in  many  a  midnight  watch.  But  I  am  neither 
hurt  nor  wounded  ;  for  you  have  never  given  me  any  reason  to 
form  so  bold,  so  unwarranted  a  hope,  and  you  have  given  me 
now  all  that  you  can  give  me,  sympathy  and  kindness.  Our 
hearts  our  affections,  I  well  know,  let  men  say  what  they  will, 


228  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

are  not  our  own  to  give —  and  a  true  woman  can  but  do  what 
you  have  done.  Moreover,  even  with  the  sorrow  and  regret 
which  I  feel  at  this  moment,  there  is  mingled  a  conviction  that 
you  are  doing  what  is  both  wise  and  right ;  "for  although  you 
have  all  within  yourself,  though  you  are  all  that  would  make 
me,  or  a  far  better  man  than  I  —  ay,  the  best  man  who  ever 
breathed  the  breath  of  life  —  supremely  happy  ;  still,  if  you 
could  not  be  happy  with  me,  and  in  me  yourself — how  could  I 
be  so  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  again,  and  now,  with  an  altered  ex 
pression,  for  there  was  less  of  sadness  and  more  of  surprise, 
more  of  respect  for  the  man  who  spoke  so  composedly,  so  well, 
in  a  moment  of  such  trial,  on  her  fair  features.  Perhaps,  too, 
there  might  have  been  a  shadow  of  regret — could  it  be  of  re 
gret  that  he  did  not  feel  more  acutely  the  loss  which  he  had 
undergone  ?  If  there  were  such  a  feeling  in  her  mind  —  for 
she  was  woman  —  it  was  transient  as  the  lightning  of  a  sum 
mer's  night  —  it  was  gone  before  she  had  time  even  to  reproach 
herself  for  its  momentary  existence. 

"  You  are  astonished,"  he  said,  interpreting  her  glance,  al 
most  before  she  knew  that,he  had  observed  it,  "  you  are  aston 
ished  that  I  should  be  so  calm,  who  am  by  nature  so  quick  and 
headlong.  But  I,  too,  have  learned  much  to-day — have  learned 
much  of  my  own  nature,  of  my  own  infirmities,  of  my  own  er 
rors —  and  with  me  to  learn  that  these  exist,  is  to  resolve  to 
conquer  them.  I  have  learned  first,  Theresa,  that  my  father, 
whom  I  have  ever  been  forced  to  regard  as  my  worst  enemy, 
died  conscious  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  me  —  done  my  moth 
er —  and  penitent,  and  full  of  love  and  of  sorrow  for  us  both. 
And  therein  have  I  convicted  myself  of  one  great  error,  com 
mitted,  indeed,  through  ignorance,  which  has,  however,  been  the 
cause,  the  source  of  many  other  errors  —  which  has  led  me  to 
charge  the  world  with  injustice,  when  I  was  myself  unjust 


SELF-CONQUEST.  229 

rather  to  the  world — which  has  made  me  guilty  of  the  great 
offence,  the  great  crime  of  hating  my  brother-men,  when  I 
I  should  have  pitied  them,  and  loved  them.  Therefore  I  will 
be  wayward  no  more,  nor  rash,  nor  reckless.  I  will  make  one 
conquest  at  least — that  of  myself  and  of  my  own  passions." 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  the  girl,  suddenly  blushing  very 
deeply,  "  that  you  are  everything  that  is  good  and  great ;  every 
thing  that  men  ought  to  admire  and  women  to  love,  and  yet — " 

"  And  yet  you  can  not  love  me.  Well,  think  no  more  of 
that,  Theresa.  Forget — " 

"  Never  !  never  !"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands  eager 
ly  together.  "  I  never  can  forget  what  you  have  made  me  feel, 
what  I  must  have  made  you  suffer  this  day." 

"  Well,  if  it  be  so,  remember  it,  Theresa ;  but  remember  it 
only  thus.  That  if  you  have  quenched  my  love,  if  you  de 
stroyed  my  hope,  you  have  but  added  to  my  regard,  to  my  affec 
tion.  Promise  me  that  wherever  you  may  be,  however,  or 
with  whomsoever  your  lot  shall  be  cast,  you  will  always  re 
member  me  as  your  friend,  your  brother ;  you  will  always  call 
on  me  at  your  slightest  need,  as  on  one  who  would  shed  his 
heart's  blood  to  win  you  a  moment's  happiness." 

"  I  will — I  will,"  she  cried  affectionately,  fervently.  "  On 
whom  else  should  I  call  ?  And  God  only  knows,"  she  added 
mournfully,  "  how  soon  I  shall  need  a  protector.  But  will  you," 
she  continued,  catching  both  his  hands  in  her  own,  "  will  you 
be  happy,  Denzil  ?" 

"  I  will,"  he  replied,  firmly,  returning  the  gentle  pressure  ; 
"  I  will,  at  least  in  so  far  as  it  rests  with  man  to  be  so,  in  de 
spite  of  fortune.  But  mark  me,  dear  Theresa,  if  you  would 
have  me  be  so,  you  can  even  yet  do  much  toward  rendering  me 
so." 

"  Can  I  ? — then  tell  me,  tell  me  how,  and  it  is  done  already." 

"  By  letting  me  see  that  you  are  happy." 

20 


230  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  Alas  !"  and  she  clasped  her  hand  hard  over  her  heart,  as  if 
to  still  its  violent  beating.  "  Alas  !  Denzil." 

"  And  why,  alas  !  Theresa  ?" 

"  Can  we  be  happy  at  our  own  will  ?" 

"  Independently  of  great  woes,  great  calamities,  which  we 
may  not  control,  which  are  sent  to  us  for  wise  ends  from  above 
—  surely,  I  say,  surely  we  can." 

"  And  can  you,  Denzil  ?" 

"  Theresa,  this  is  to  me  a  great  wo — yea,  a  great  calamity ; 
and  yet  I  reply,  ay !  after  a  time,  after  the  bitterness  shall  be 
overpast,  I  can,  and  more,  I  will.  Much  more,  then,  can  you, 
who  have  never  felt,  who  I  trust  and  believe  will  never  meet 
any  such  wo  or  grief — much  more  can  you  be  happy.  Where 
fore  should  you  not,  foolish  child  ? — have  you  not  been  happy 
hitherto  ?  What  have  you,  that  you  should  not  be  happy  now  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied,  faintly.  "  I  have  nothing  why  I 
should  be  unhappy,  unless  it  be,  that  if  I  have  made  you  so." 

"  Theresa,  you  have  not — you  shall  see  that  you  have  not 
— made  me  unhappy." 

"  And  yet,  Denzil,  yet  I  feel  a  foreboding  that  I  shall  be, 
that  I  must  be  unhappy.  A  want — I  feel  a  want  of  something 
here." 

"  You  are  excited,  agitated  now  ;  all  this  has  been  too  much 
for  your  spirits,  for  your  nerves  ;  and  I  think,  Theresa,  I  am 
sure  that  you  are  too  much  alone — you  think,  or  rather  you 
muse  and  dream,  which  are  not  healthy  modes  of  thinking — 
too  much  in  solitude.  I  will  speak  to  my  uncle  about  that  be 
fore  I  go — " 

"  Before  you  go !"  she  interrupted  him,  quickly.  "  Go 
whither  ?" 

"  To  sea.     To  my  ship,  Theresa." 

"  Then  you  are  hurt,  then  you  are  angry  with  me.  Then  I 
have  no  influence  over  you." 


A    DETERMINATION    TO    DEPART.  231 

"  Cease,  cease,  Theresa.  It  is  better,  it  is  necessary — I 
must  go  for  a  while,  until  I  have  weaned  myself  from  this  des 
perate  feeling,  until  I  shall  have  accustomed  myself  to  think  of 
you,  to  regard  you  as  a  sister  only ;  until  I  shall  have  schooled 
myself  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  contemplate  you  without  agony 
as  not  only  not  being  mine — but  being  another's." 

"  Would  it — would  it  be  agony  to  you,  Denzil  ?  Then  mark 
me,  I  never,  never  will  be  another's. 

"  Madness  !"  he  answered,  firmly  ;  "  madness  and  wicked 
ness,  too,  Theresa.  Neither  men  nor  women  were  intended  by 
the  great  Maker  to  be  solitary  beings.  God  forbid,  if  you  can 
not  be  mine,  that  I  should  be  so  selfish  as  to  wish  your  life  bar 
ren,  and  your  heart  loveless.  No  ;  love,  Theresa,  when  you 
can — only  love  wisely.  Then  the  day  shall  come  when  it  will 
add  to  my  happiness  to  see  and  know  you  happy  in  the  love  of 
one  whom  you  can  love,  and  who  shall  love  you  as  you  should 
be  loved.  Never  speak  again  as  you  did  but  now,  Theresa. 
And  now,  dearest  girl,  I  will  leave  you.  Rest  yourself  awhile, 
and  compose  yourself,  and  then  go  if  you  will  to  your  good 
father." 

"  Shall  I  —  shall  I  tell  him,"  she  faltered,  "  what  has  passed 
between  us  ?" 

"  As  you  will,  as  you  judge  best,  Theresa.  I  am  no  advo 
cate  for  concealment,  still  less  for  deceit — but  here  there  is 
none  of  the  latter,  and  to  tell  him  this  might  grieve  his  kind 
spirit." 

"  You  are  wise — you  are  good.     God  bless  you." 

"  And  you,  Theresa,"  and  he  passed  his  arm  calmly  across 
her  shoulder,  and  bending  over,  pressed  his  lips,  calmly  as  a 
brother's  kiss,  on  her  pure  brow.  "  Fare  you  well." 

"  You  are  not  going — going  to  leave  us,  now  ?" 

"  Not  to-day — not  to-day,  Theresa." 

"  Nor  to-morrow  ?"  she  said,  beseechingly. 


232  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  Nor  to-morrow,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"  but  soon.  Now  compose  yourself,  my  dear  little  girl.  Fare 
well,  and  God  bless  you." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE    ROVER. 

"The  sea,  the  sea  is  England's"  —  quo'  he  again  — 

"  The  sea,  the  sea  is  England's,  and  England's  shall  remain." 

NELL  GWTNNE'S  Sono. 

After  scenes  of  great  excitement  there  ever  follows  a  sort  of 
listless  languor ;  and,  as  in  natural  commotions  the  fiercest  ele 
mental  strife  is  oftentimes  succeeded  by  the  stillest  calms,  so 
in  the  agitations  of  the  human  breast,  the  most  tumultuous  pas 
sions  are  followed  frequently,  if  not  invariably,  by  a  sort  of 
quiet  which  resembles,  though  it  is  not,  indifference. 

Thus  it  was,  that  day,  in  the  household  of  William  Allan. 
Tranquil  and  peaceful  at  all  times,  in  consequence  of  the  re 
served  and  studious  habits  of  the  master  of  the  house,  and  the 
deep  sympathy  with  his  feelings  and  wishes  which  ruled  the 
conduct  of  his  children  —  for  Denzil  was,  in  all  respects  save 
birth,  the  old  man's  son  —  that  house  was  not  usually  without 
its  own  peculiar  cheerfulness,  and  its  subdued  hilarity,  arising 
from  the  gentle  yet  mirthful  disposition  of  the  young  girl,  and 
the  high  spirits  of  Denzil,  attuned  to  the  sobriety  of  the  place. 

But  during  the  whole  of  that  day  its  quietude  was  so  very 
still  as  to  be  almost  oppressive,  and  to  be  felt  so  by  its  inmates. 
Allan  himself  was  still  enveloped  in  one  of  those  mysterious 
moods  of  darkness,  which  at  times  clouded  his  strong  and  pow 
erful  intellect,  as  marsh  exhalations  will  obscure  the  sunshine 
of  an  autumn  day.  Denzil  was  silent,  reserved,  thoughtful,  not 


AN    ASSUMED    CHEERFULNESS.  233 

gloomy  or  even  melancholy,  but — very  unusually  for  him — 
disposed  to  muse  and  ponder,  rather  than  to  converse  or  to  act. 
Theresa  was  evidently  agitated  and  perturbed  ;  and  although 
she  compelled  herself  to  be  busy  about  her  domestic  duties,  to 
attend  to  the  comforts  of  the  strange  guests  whom  accident  had 
thrown  upon  their  hospitality,  though  she  strove  to  be  cheerful, 
and  to  assume  a  lightness  of  heart  which  she  was  far  from  feel 
ing,  she  was  too  poor  a  dissembler  to  succeed  in  imposing 
either  on  herself  or  on  those  about  her,  and  there  was  no  one 
person  in  the  cottage,  from  the  old  cavalier  down  to  the  single 
femaleservant,  with  the  exception  of  her  father,  who  did  not 
perceive  that  something  had  occurred  to  throw  an  unwonted 
shadow  over  her  mind. 

Jasper,  alone  perhaps  of  all  the  persons  so  singularly  thrown 
together,  was  himself.  His  age,  his  character,  his  tempera 
ment,  all  combined  to  render  him  the  last  to  be  affected  seri 
ously  by  anything  which  did  not  touch  himself  very  nearly. 
And  yet  he  was  not  altogether  what  is  called  selfish ;  though 
recklessness,  and  natural  audacity,  and  undue  indulgence,  and, 
above  all,  the  evil  habits  which  had  grown  out  of  his  being  too 
soon  his  own  master,  and  the  master  of  others,  had  rendered 
him  thoughtless,  if  not  regardless,  of  the  feelings  of  those  around 
him. 

All  the  consequences  of  his  accident,  except  the  stiffness  and 
pain  remaining  from  his  contusions,  had  passed  away ;  and 
though  he  was  confined  to  his  bed,  and  unable  to  move  a  limb 
without  a  pang,  his  mind  was  as  clear,  and  his  spirit  as  untamed 
as  ever. 

His  father,  who  had  been  aroused  from  the  state  of  indolence 
and  sedentary  torpor,  which  was  habitual  rather  than  natural 
to  him,  by  the  accident  which  had  startled  him  into  excitement 
and  activity,  had  not  yet  subsided  into  his  careless  self-indul 
gence  ;  for  the  subsequent  events  of  the  past  evening,  and  his 
20* 


234  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

conversation  with  Denzil  on  that  morning,  had  moved  and  in 
terested  him  deeply — had  set  him  to  thinking  much  about  the 
past,  and  thence  to  ruminating  on  the  future,  if  perchance  he 
could  read  it. 

He  by  no  means  lacked  clear-sightedness,  or  that  sort  of 
worldly  wisdom,  which  arises  from  much  intercourse  with  the 
world  in  all  its  various  phases.  He  was  far  from  deficient  in 
energy  when  aught  occurred  to  stimulate  him  into  action,  whether 
bodily  or  mental.  And  now  he  was  interested  enough  to  in 
duce  him  so  far  to  exert  himself,  as  to  think  about  what  was 
passing,  and  to  endeavor  to  discover  its  causes. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  long  before  he  satisfied  himself,  and 
that  without  asking  a  question,  or  giving  utterance  to  a  surmise, 
that  an  explanation  had  taken  place  between  the  young  seaman 
and  Theresa,  and  that  the  explanation  had  terminated  in  the 
disappointment  of  Denzil's  hopes.  Still  he  was  puzzled,  for 
there  was  an  air  of  tranquil  satisfaction — it  could  not  be  called 
resignation,  for  it  had  no  particle  of  humility  in  its  constituents 
—  about  the  young  man,  and  an  affectionate  attention  to  his 
pretty  cousin,  which  did  not  comport  with  what  he  supposed  to 
be  his  character,  under  such  circumstances  as  those  in  which 
he  believed  him  to  stand  toward  her. 

He  would  have  looked  for  irritability,  perhaps  for  impetuosity 
bordering  on  violence,  perhaps  for  sullen  moodiness — the  pres 
ent  disposition  of  the  man  was  to  him  incomprehensible.  And 
if  so,  not  less  was  he  unable  to  understand  the  depression  of 
the  young  girl,  who  was  frequently,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  so 
much  agitated,  as  to  be  on  the  point  of  bursting  into  tears,  and 
avoided  it  only  by  making  her  escape  suddenly  from  the  room. 

Once  or  twice,  indeed,  he  caught  her  eyes,  when  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  observed,  fixed  with  an  expression,  to  which 
he  could  affix  no  meaning,  upon  the  varying  and  intelligent 
countenance  of  his  son — an  expression  half-melancholy,  half- 


235 

wistful,  conveying  no  impression  to  the  spectator's  mind,  of  the 
existence  in  hers  of  either  love  or  liking,  but  rather  of  some 
sort  of  hidden  interest,  some  earnest  curiosity  coupled  almost 
with  fear — something,  in  a  word,  if  such  things  can  be,  that 
resembled  painful  fascination.  Once,  too,  he  noticed,  that  not 
he  only,  but  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  likewise,  perceived  the  glance, 
and  was  struck  by  its  peculiarity.  And  then  the  old  cavalier 
was  alarmed  ;  for  a  spirit,  that  was  positively  fearful,  inflamed 
the  dark  face  and  gleaming  eyes  of  the  free-trader — a  spirit  of 
malevolence  and  hate,  mingled  with  iron  resolve  and  animal 
fierceness,  which  rendered  the  handsome  features,  while  it 
lasted,  perfectly  revolting. 

That  aspect  was  transient,  however,  as  the  short-lived  illu 
mination  of  a  lightning  flash,  when  it  reveals  the  terrors  of  a 
midnight  ocean.  It  was  there  ;  it  was  gone  —  and,  almost  be 
fore  you  could  read  it,  the  face  was  again  inscrutable  as  blank 
darkness. 

The  thought  arose,  several  times  that  day,  in  the  mind  of 
Miles  St.  Aubyn,  that  he  would  give  much  that  neither  he  nor 
his  son  had  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  that  house;  or  that 
now,  being  within  it,  it  were  within  his  power  to  depart.  But 
carriages,  in  those  days,  were  luxuries  of  comparatively  rare 
occurrence  even  in  the  streets  of  the  metropolis  ;  and  in  the  re 
mote  rural  counties,  the  state  of  society,  the  character  of  the 
roads,  arid  the  limited  means  of  the  resident  landed  proprietors 
rendered  them  almost  unknown. 

There  were  not  probably,  within  fifty  miles  of  Widecomb, 
two  vehicles  of  higher  pretension  than  the  rough  carts  of  the 
peasantry  and  farmers ;  all  journeys  being  still  performed  on 
horseback,  if  necessary  by  relays  ;  even  the  fair  sex  travelling, 
according  to  their  nerves  and  capability  to  endure  fatigue,  either 
on  the  side-saddle,  or  on  pillions  behind  a  relative  or  a  trusty 
servant. 


236  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

Until  Jasper  should  be  sufficiently  recovered  either  to  set  foot 
in  stirrup,  or  to  walk  the  distance  between  the  fords  of  Wide- 
comb  and  the  House  in  the  Woods,  there  was  therefore  no  al 
ternative  but  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to  remain  where  they 
were,  relying  on  the  hospitality  of  their  entertainers. 

Denzil's  manner,  it  is  true,  partook  in  no  degree  of  the  color 
ing  which  that  transient  expression  seemed  to  imply  in  his 
feelings  ;  for,  though  unwontedly  silent,  when  he  did  speak  he 
spoke  frankly  and  friendly  to  the  young  invalid  ;  and  more  than 
once,  warming  to  his  subject,  as  field-sports,  or  bold  adventures, 
of  this  kind  or  that,  came  into  mention,  he  displayed  interest 
and  animation ;  and  even  related  some  personal  experiences, 
and  striking  anecdotes,  of  the  Spanish  Main  and  of  the  Indian 
islands,  with  so  much  spirit  and  liveliness,  as  to  show  that  he 
not  only  wished  to  amuse,  but  was  amused  himself. 

While  he  was  in  this  mood,  he  suffered  it  to  escape  him,  or 
to  be  elicited  from  him  by  some  indistinct  question  of  the  old 
cavalier,  that  he  intended  ere  long  to  set  forth  again  on  another 
voyage  of  adventure  to  those  far  climes  which  were  still  invested 
with  something  of  the  romance  of  earlier  ages. 

It  was  at  this  hint,  especially,  that  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn  ob 
served  Theresa's  beautiful  blue  eyes  fill  with  unbidden  tears, 
and  her  bosom  throb  with  agitation  so  tumultuous,  that  she  had 
no  choice  but  to  retire  from  the  company,  in  order  to  conceal 
her  emotion. 

And  at  this,  likewise,  for  the  first  time  did  William  Allan 
manifest  any  interest  in  the  conversation. 

"  What,"  he  said,  "  what  is  that  thou  sayest,  Denzil,  that  thou 
art  again  about  to  leave  us  ?  Methought  it  was  thy  resolve  to 
tarry  with  us  until  after  the  autumnal  solstice." 

"  It  was  my  resolve,  uncle,"  replied  the  young  man  quietly ; 
"  but  something  has  occurred  since,  which  has  caused  me  to 
alter  any  determination.  My  mates,  moreover,  are  very  anx- 


MAN    PROPOSES,    BUT    GOD    DISPOSES.  237 

ious  to  profit  by  the  fine  weather  of  this  season,  and  so  soon  as 
I  can  ship  a  cargo,  and  get  some  brisk  bold  hands,  I  shall  set 
sail." 

"  I  like  not  such  quick  and  sudden  changes,"  replied  the  old 
man ;  "  nor  admire  the  mind  which  can  not  hold  to  a  steady 
purpose." 

The  dark  complexion  of  Denzil  fired  for  a  moment  at  the  re 
buke,  and  his  nether  lip  quivered,  as  though  he  had  difficulty  in 
repressing  a  retort.  He  did  repress  it,  however,  and  answered, 
apparently  without  emotion  : — 

"You  are  a  wise  man,  uncle,  and  must  know  that  circum 
stances  wtll  arise  which  must  needs  alter  all  plans  that  are 
merely  human.  Uhomme  propose,  as  the  Frenchman  has  it, 
mais  Dieu  dispose.  So  it  is  with  me,  just  now.  The  changed 
determination  which  I  have  just  announced  does  not  arise  from 
any  change  in  my  desires,  but  from  a  contingency  on  which  I 
did  not  calculate." 

"  It  were  better  not  to  determine  until  one  had  made  sure  of 
all  contingencies,"  said  William  Allan,  sententiously. 

"  Then  I  think,  one  would  never  determine  at  all.  For,  if  I 
have  learned  aright,  mutability  is  a  condition  unavoidable  in  hu 
man  affairs.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  the  only  change,  I  can  im 
agine,  which  will  hinder  me  from  sailing  on  the  Virginia  voyage, 
so  soon  as  I  can  ship  a  crew  and  stow  a  cargo,  will  be  a  change 
of  the  wind.  It  blows  fair  now,  if  it  will  only  hold  a  week.  One 
other  change  there  is,"  he  added,  as  his  fair  cousin  entered  the 
room  with  a  basket  of  fresh-gathered  roses,  "  which  might  de 
tain,  but  that  change  will  not  come  to  pass  ;  do  you  think  it  will, 
Theresa  ?" 

"  I  think  not,  Cousin  Denzil,"  she  replied  with  a  slight  blush, 
"  if  you  allude  to  that  concerning  which  we  spoke  this  morning." 

The  old  knight  looked  from-  one  to  the  other  of  the  young 
people  in  bewilderment.  Their  perfect  understanding  and  ex- 


238  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

treme  control  of  their  feelings  were  beyond  his  comprehension, 
and  yet  he  could  not  believe  that  he  had  mistaken. 

"  What,  are* you  too  against  me,  girl  ?"  said  her  father  quickly. 
"  Have  you  given  your  consent  to  his  going  ?" 

"  My  consent !"  she  replied  ;  "  I  do  not  imagine  that  my  con 
sent  is  very  necessary,  or  that  Denzil  would  wait  long  for  it. 
But  I  do  think  it  is  quite  as  well  he  should  go  now,  if  he  must 
go  at  all,  particularly  as  he  intends,  if  I  understand  rightly,  that 
it  should  be  his  last  voyage." 

"  I  did  not  promise  that,  Theresa,"  said  the  sailor,  with  a 
faint  smile  —  "  although" — 

"  Did  you  not?" — she  interrupted  him  quickly — "  I  thought 
you  had ;  but  it  must  be  as  you  will,  and  certainly  it  does  not 
much  concern  me." 

And  with  the  words  she  left  the  room  hastily,  and  not  as  it 
appeared  very  well  pleased. 

"There!  seest  thou  that?"  cried  her  father — "  seest  thou 
that,  Denzil  ?" 

"  Ay  !  do  I,"  replied  the  young  man  with  a  good  deal  of 
bitterness.  •'  But  I  do  not  need  to  see  that,  to  teach  me  that 
women  are  capricious  and  selfish  in  their  exigency  of  services." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  A  silence,  which  in  itself  was 
painful,  and  which  seemed  like  to  give  birth  to  words  more  painful 
yet,  for  William  Allan  knit  his  brow  darkly,  and  compressed  his 
lower  lip,  and  fixed  his  eye  upon  vacancy. 

But  at  this  moment  Jasper,  whose  natural  recklessness  had 
rendered  him  unobservant  of  the  feelings  which  had  been  dis 
played  during  that  short  conversation,  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  looking  eagerly  at  Denzil  exclaimed  : — 

"  Oh,  the  Virginia  voyage  !  To  the  New  World  !  My  God ! 
how  I  should  love  to  go  with  you.  Do  you  carry  guns  ?  How 
many  do  you  muster  of  your  crew  ?" 

The  interruption,  although  the  speaker  had  no  such  intention, 


MARITIME    SUPREMACY.  239 

was  well  timed,  for  it  turned  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  all 
present  into  a  new  channel.    The  two  old  men  looked  into  each 
other's  face,  and  smiled  as  their  eyes  met,  and  Allan  whispered.         . 
though  quite  loud  enough  to  be  audible  to  all  present :  — 

"  The  same  spirit,  Miles,  the  same  spirit.  As  crows  the  old 
game-cock,  so  crows  the  young  game-chicken  !" 

"  And  why  not  ?"  answered  Denzil,  with  a  ready  smile,  for 
there  was  something  that  whispered  at  his  heart,  though  indeed 
he  knew  not  wherefore,  that  it  were^not  so  ill  done  to  remove 
Jasper  from  that  neighborhood  for  a  while.  "  If  Sir  Miles  judge 
it  well  that  you  should  see  something  of  the  world,  in  these 
piping  times  of  peace,  it  is  never  too  soon  to  begin.  You  shall 
have  a  berth  in  my  own  cabin,  and  I  will  put  you  in  the  way  of 
seeing  swords  flash,  and  smelling  villanous  saltpetre,  in  a  right 
good  cause,  I'll  warrant  you." 

"  A  right  good  cause,  Denzil  ?  and  what  cause  may  that  be  ?" 
asked  his  uncle  in  a  caustic  tone. 

"  The  cause  of  England's  maritime  supremacy,"  answered 
the  young  man  proudly.  "  That  is  cause  good  enough  for 
me.  For  what  saith  Bully  Blake  in  the  old  song — 

"  <  The  sea,  the  sea  is  England's,'  quo'  he  again, 
'The  sea,  the  sea  is  England's,  and  England's  shall  remain.'  "  . 

and  he  carolled  the  words  in  a  fine  deep  bass  voice,  to  a  stirring 
air,  and  then  added — "  That,  sir,  is  the  cause  we  fight  for,  on 
the  line  and  beyond  it — and  that  we  will  fight  for,  here  and 
everywhere,  when  it  shall  be  needful  to  fight  for  it.  And  now, 
young  friend,  to  answer  your  question.  I  do  carry  guns,  eigh 
teen  as  lively  brass  twelve-pounders  as  ever  spoke  good  En 
glish  to  a  Don  or  a  Monsieur,  or  a  Mynheer  either,  for  that  mat 
ter  ;  and  then  for  crew,  men  and  officers,  I  generally  contrive  to 
pack  on  board  eighty  or  ninety  as  brisk  boys  as  ever  pulled  upon  a 
brace,  or  handled  a  cutlass." 

"  Why  you  must  reckon  on  high  profits  to  venture  such  an 


240  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

outlay,"  said  Sir  Miles,  avoiding  the  question  of  his  son's  par 
ticipation  in  the  cruise. 

"  Ay  !"  answered  Denzil,  "  if  no  gold  is  to  be  had  for  picking 
up  in  Eldorado,  there  is  some  to  be  gained  there  yet  by  free- 
trading —  and  once  in  a  while  one  may  have  the  luck  to  pick 
up  a  handful  on  the  sea." 

"  On  the  sea,  ay !  how  so  ?" 

"  Once  I  was  going  quietly  along  before  the  trades,  with  my 
goods  under  hatches  as  peaceable  and  lawful  a  trader,  as  need 
be,  when  we  fell  in  with  a  tall  galleon  laveering.  Having  no 
cause  to  shun  or  fear  her,  I  lay  my  own  course  with  English 
colors  flying,  when  what  does  she  but  up  helm  and  after  us. 
In  half  an  hour  she  was  within  range  and  opened  with  her  bow 
guns,  in  ten  minutes  more  she  was  alongside,  and — " 

"  Alongside,  in  ten  minutes,  from  long  cannon  range !"  ex 
claimed  Miles  St.  Aubyn  —  "what  were  you  doing  then,  that 
she  overhauled  you  so  fast  ?" 

"  Running  down  to  meet  her,  Sir  Miles,  with  every  stitch  of 
canvass  set  that  would  draw,  when  I  saw  that  she  was  bent  on 
having  it;  and — as  I  was  about  to  say  when  you  interrupted 
me  —  in  twenty  more  she  had  changed  owners." 

"  Indeed  !  indeed  !  that  was  a  daring  blow,"  said  the  old  sol 
dier,  rousing  at  the  tale,  like  a  superannuated  war-horse  to  the 
trumpet,  "  and  what  was  she  ?" 

"  A  treasure-galleon,  sir  ;  a  Spaniard  homeward  bound,  with 
twenty-six  guns,  and  two  hundred  men." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  with  your  prize,  in  peace  time  ?  You 
hardly  brought  her  into  Plymouth,  I  should  fancy." 

"  Nor  into  Cadiz,  either,"  he  replied  with  a  smile.  "  Her 
crew  or  what  was  left  of  them,  were  put  on  board  a  coaster 
bound  for  St.  Salvador,  her  bars  and  ingots  on  board  the  good 
ship  'Royal  Oak,'  of  Bristol,  and  she — oh!  she,  I  think,  was 
sent  to  the  bottom !" 


A    GAME-CHICKEN.  241 

"  A  daring  deed  !"  said  Sir  Miles,  shaking  his  head  gravely 
—  "a  daring  deed,  truly,  which  might  well  cost  you  all  your 
lives,  were  it  complained  of  by  the  most  Christian  king  !" 

"  And  yet.  his  supreme  Christianity  fired  on  us  the  first!" 

"  And  yet,  that  plea,  I  fear,  would  hardly  save  you  in  these 
days,  but  you  would  hang  for  it." 

"  Amen  !"  replied  the  young  man.  "  Better  be  hanged,  '  his 
country  crying  he  hath  played  an  English  part,'  than  creep  to 
a  quiet  grave  a  coward  from  his  cradle.  And  now,  what  say 
you,  young  sir,  would  you  still  wish  to  adventure  it  with  us, 
knowing  what  risks  we  run  ?" 

"  Ay,  by  my  soul !"  answered  the  brave  boy,  with  a  flashing 
eye,  and  quivering  lip,  "and  the  rather,  that  I  do  know  it. 
What  do  you  say,  father  ?  May  I  go  with  him  ?  In  God's 
name,  will  you  not  let  me  go  with  him  ?" 

"  Indeed,  will  I  not,  Jasper,"  said  Sir  Miles,  with  an  accent 
of  resolve  so  steady,  that  the  boy  saw  at  once  it  was  useless  to 
waste  another  word  on  it.  "  Besides,  he  is  only  laughing  at 
you.  Why!  what  in  Heaven's  name  should  he  make  with  such 
a  cockerel  as  thou,  crowing  or  ere  thy  spurs  have  sprouted !" 

"  Laughing  at  me,  is  he  !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  raising  himself 
up  in  his  bed,  actively,  without  exhibiting  the  least  sign  of  the 
pain,  which  racked  him,  as  he  moved.  "  If  I  thought  he  were, 
he'd  scarce  sail  so  quickly  as  he  counts  on  doing." 

Here  Denzil  would  have  spoken,  but  the  old  cavalier  cut  in 
before  him,  saying  with  a  sneer  : — 

"  It  is  like  thou  couldst  hinder  him,  my  boy,  at  any  time  ; 
most  of  all  when  thou  art  lying  there  bedridden." 

"  The  very  reason  wherefore  I  could  hinder  him  the  easier," 
replied  Jasper,  who  saw  by  Denzil's  grave  and  calm  expression 
that  the  meaning  his  father  had  attached  to  his  speech,  was  not 
his  meaning. 

"And  how  so,  I  prithee  ?" 

21 


242  JASPER    ST.    ATJBTN. 

"  Had  he,  as  you  say  he  did,  intended  to  mock  me,  or  insult 
me  otherwise,  I  would  have  prayed  him  courteously  to  delay 
his  sailing  until  such  time  as  my  hurts  would  permit  me  to 
draw  triggers,  or  cross  swords  with  him  ;  and  he  would  have 
delayed  at  my  request,  being  a  gentleman  of  courage  and  of 
honor." 

"Assuredly  I  should,"  replied  Denzil  Bras-de-fer,  "  and  you 
would  have  done  very  rightly  to  call  on  me  in  that  case.  But 
let  me  assure  you,  nothing  was  further  from  my  intention  than 
to  laugh  at  you.  I  sailed  myself,  and  smelt  gunpowder  in  ear 
liest,  before  I  was  so  old  as  you  are  by  several  years ;  and  I 
was  perfectly  in  earnest  when  I  spoke,  although  I  can  now 
well  see  that  my  offer,  though  assuredly  well  intended,  could 
not  be  accepted." 

Before  Jasper  had  time  to  reply  to  these  words,  his  father 
said  to  him  with  a  look  of  approbation : — 

"  You  have  answered  very  well,  my  son  ;  and  I  am  glad  that 
you  have  reflected,  and  seen  so  well  what  becomes  a  gentleman 
to  ask,  and  to  grant  in  such  cases.  For  the  rest,  you  ought  to 
see  that  Master  Denzil  Olifaunt  is  perfectly  in  the  right ;  and, 
that  having  offered  you  courteously  what  you  asked  rashly,  he 
now  perceives  clearly  the  impossibility  of  your  accepting  his 
offer." 

"  I  do  not,  however,  see  that  at  all,"  answered  the  boy  mood 
ily.  "  You  carried  a  stand  of  colors,  I  have  heard  you  say, 
before  you  were  fifteen,  and  you  deny  me  the  only  chance  of 
winning  honor  that  ever  may  be  offered  to  me,  in  these  degen 
erate  times,  and  under  this  peaceful  king." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  it  would  minister  very  much  to  your 
honor,  or  add  to  the  renown  of  our  name,  that  you  should  get 
yourself  hanged  on  some  sand-key  in  the  Caribbean  sea,  or 
knocked  on  the  head  in  some  scuffle  with  the  Spanish  guarda 
costas — no  imputation,  I  pray  you  believe  me,  Master  Olifaunt, 


A    PATERNAL    REBUKE.  243 

on  your  choice  of  a  career,  the  gallantry  and  justice  of  which  I 
will  not  dispute,  though  I  may  not  wish  my  son  to  adopt  it." 

"  I  know  not  what  you  would  have  me  do,"  said  the  boy, 
"  unless  you  intend  to  keep  me  here  all  my  life,  fishing  for  sal 
mon  and  shooting  black-cock  for  an  occupation,  and  making 
love  to  country-girls  for  an  amusement." 

"  I  was  not  aware,  Jasper,"  answered  his  father  more  seri 
ously  than  he  had  ever  before  heard  him  speak,  "  that  'this  lat 
ter  was  one  of  your  amusements.  If  it  be  so,  I  shall  certainly 
take  the  earliest  means  of  bringing  it  to  a  conclusion,  for  while 
it  is  not  very  creditable  to  yourself,  it  is  ruinous  to  those  with 
whom  you  think  fit  to  amuse  yourself  as  you  call  it." 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  ever  had  amused  myself  so,"  replied 
Jasper,  somewhat  crest-fallen  by  the  rebuke  of  his  father  — 
"though  if  I  am  kept  moping  here  much  longer,  Heaven  only 
knows  what  I  may  do." 

"  Well,  sir,  no  more  of  this !"  said  the  old  man  sharply. 
"  You  are  not  yet  a  man,  whatever  you  may  think  of  yourself; 
neither,  I  believe,  are  you  at  all  profligate  or  vicious.  Although 
as  boys  at  your  age  are  apt  enough  to  do,  you  may  think  it 
manly  to  affect  vices  of  which  you  are  ignorant.  But  to  quit 
this  subject,  when  do  you  think  you  shall  sail,  Master  Oli- 
faunt  ?" 

"  I  can  not  answer  you  that,  Sir  Miles,  certainly.  I  purpose 
to  set  off  hence  for  Plymouth  to-morrow  afternoon,  and,  as  I 
shall  ride  post,  it  will  not  take  me  long  ere  I  am  on  board. 
When  I  arrive,  I  shall  be  able  to  fix  upon  a  day  for  sailing." 

"  But  you  will  return  hither,  will  you  not,  before  you  go  to 
sea  ?" 

"  Assuredly  I  will,  Sir  Miles,  to  say  farewell  to  my  kind 
uncle  here,  who  has  been  as  a  father  to  me,  and  to  my  little 
Theresa." 

"  And  you  will  pass  one  day  I  trust,  if  you  may  not  give  us 


I 

244  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

more,  with  Jasper  at  the  manor.  "We  can  show  you  a  heron 
or  two  on  the  moor,  and  let  you  see  how  our  long-winged  fal 
cons  fly,  if  you  are  fond  of  hawking.  It  shall  be  my  fault,  if 
hereafter,  after  so  long  an  interruption,  I  suffer  old  friendship, 
and  recent  kindness  also,  to  pass  away  and  be  forgotten." 

"  I  will  come  gladly  to  see  my  young  friend  here,  who  will 
ere  then  be  quite  recovered  from  this  misadventure  ;  and  who, 
if  he  rides  as  venturesomely  as  he  fishes,  will  surely  leave  me 
far  behind  in  the  hot  hawking  gallop  ;  for  though  I  can  ride,  I 
am,  sailor-like,  not  over  excellent  at  horsemanship." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    EIDOLON. 

"  Can  these  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  reason." — MACBETH. 

THUS  passed  the  afternoon,  until  the  evening  meal  was  an 
nounced,  and  Jasper  was  left  alone,  with  nothing  but  his  own 
-wild  and  whirling  thoughts  to  entertain  him.  He  was  ill  at 
ease  in  his  own  mind,  ill  at  ease  with  himself  and  with  all 
around  him.  Vexed  with  Denzil  Bras-de-fer,  for  offering  in 
the  first  instance  to  take  him  as  a  partner  in  his  adventure,  and 
then  for  failing  at  the  pinch  to  back  his  offer  by  his  stout  opin 
ion  ;  vexed  with  his  father  for  thwarting  his  will,  and  yet  more 
for  rebuking  him  publicly,  and  in  the  presence  of  Theresa,  too, 
before  whom,  boylike,  he  would  fain  have  figured  as  a  hero  ; 
and  lastly,  vexed  with  Theresa  herself,  because,  though  kind 
and  gentle,  she  had  not  sat  by  his  bedside  all  day,  as  she  did 
yesterday,  or  devoted  all  her  attention  to  himself  alone,  he  was 


REVENGEFUL    THOUGHTS.  245 

in  the  very  mood  to  torment  himself,  and  every  one  else,  to  the 
extent  of  his  powers. 

Then,  as  his  thoughts  wandered  from  one  to  another  of  those 
whom  he  thought  fit  to  look  upon  as  having  wronged  him,  they 
settled  on  the  most  innocent  of  all,  Theresa ;  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  the  wild  words,  which  he  had  uttered  without  any  ul 
terior  meaning  at  the  time,  and  with  no  other  intent  than  that 
of  annoying  his  father,  recurred  to  his  mind,  concerning  village- 
maidens. 

He  started,  as  the  idea  occurred  to  him,  and  at  first  he  won 
dered  what  train  of  thought  could  have  brought  back  those 
words  in  connection  with  Theresa's  image.  But,  as  he  grew 
accustomed  to  his  own  thought,  it  became,  as  it  were,  the  fa 
ther  to  the  wish  ;  and  he  began  to  consider  how  pretty  and  gen 
tle  she  was,  and  how  delicate  her  slight,  rounded  figure,  and 
how  soft  and  low  her  voice.  Then  he  remembered  that  she 
had  looked  at  him  twice  or  thrice  during  the  day,  with  an  ex 
pression  which  he  had  never  seen  in  a  woman's  eyes  before, 
and  which,  though  he  understood  it  not,  did  not  bode  ill  to  his 
success  ;  and  lastly,  the  worst,  bitterest  thought  of  all  arose  in 
his  mind,  and  retained  possession  of  it.  "  I  will  spite  them 
all,"  he  thought,  "  that  proud,  insolent,  young  sailor,  who,  be 
cause  he  is  a  few  years  older  than  I,  and  has  seen  swords 
drawn  once  or  twice  —  for  all,  I  doubt  if  he  can  fence  or  shoot 
any  better  than  I,  or  if  he  be  a  whit  more  active  —  affects  to 
look  down  upon  me  as  a  stripling.  His  'young  friend,'  truly! 
let  him  look  out,  whether  he  have  not  cause  to  term  me  some 
thing  else  ere  he  die.  By  God  !  I  believe  he  loves  the  girl,  too  ! 
he  looked  black  as  a  thunder-cloud  over  Dartmoor,  when  she 
smiled  on  me!  And  my  father — by  my  soul!  I  think  he's 
doting  ;  and  her  dainty  ladyship,  too  !  I'll  see  if  I  can  not  have 
her  more  eager  to  hear  me,  than  she  has  shown  herself  to-day. 

21* 


246  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

I  will  do  it — I  will,  by  all  that's  holy !  Heaven  !  how  it  will 
spite  them !" 

Then  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  pillow,  and  began  to  re 
flect  how  he  should  act,  and  what  were  his  chances  of  success 
in  the  villany  which  he  meditated  ;  and  he  even  asked  himself, 
with  something  of  the  boy's  diffidence  in  his  first  encounter 
with  woman,  "  But  can  I,  can  I  win  her  affection  ?"  and  vanity 
and  the  peculiar  audacity  of  his  race,  of  his  own  character, 
made  answer  instantly,  "  Ay,  can  I.  Am  I  not  handsomer, 
and  cleverer,  and  more  courtly  ?  am  I  not  higher  born,  and 
higher  bred,  and  higher  mannered,  not  only  than  that  seafaring 
lout,  but  than  any  one  she  has  ever  met  withal  ?  Ay,  can  I, 
and  ay,  will  I !" 

And  in  obedience  to  this  last  and  base  resolve,  the  worst  and 
basest  that  ever  had  crossed  the  boy's  mind,  no  sooner  had  they 
returned  from  the  adjoining  room,  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
evening  meal,  than  he  contrived  entirely  to  monopolize  Theresa. 

First,  he  asked  her  to  play  at  chess  with  him ;  and  then,  af 
ter  spending  a  couple  of  hours,  under  the  pretence  of  playing, 
but  in  reality  gazing  into  her  blue  eyes,  and  talking  all  sorts  of 
wild,  enthusiastical,  poetical  romance,  half-earnest  and  half-af 
fected,  he  declared  that  his  head  ached,  and  asked  her  to  read 
aloud  to  him ;  and  when  she  did  so,  sitting  without  a  thought 
of  ill  beside  his  pillow,  while  their  fathers  were  conversing  in 
a  low  tone  over  the  hearth,  and  Denzil  was  absent  making  his 
preparations  for  the  next  day's  journey,  he  let  his  hand  fall,  as 
if  unconsciously,  on  hers,  and  after  a  little  while,  emboldened 
by  her  unsuspicious  calmness,  imprisoned  it  between  his  fingers. 

It  might  have  been  that  she  was  so  much  engrossed  in  read 
ing,  for  it  was  Shakspere's  sweet  Rosalind  that  the  boy  had 
chosen  for  her  subject,  that  she  was  not  aware  that  her  hand 
was  clasped  in  his.  It  might  have  been,  that,  accustomed  to  its 
pressure,  from  his  involuntary  retention  of  it  during  his  lethar- 


AN    UNLOOKED-FOR    INTERRUPTION.  247 

gic  sleep  on  the  preceding  day,  she  let  it  pass  as  a  matter  of 
no  consequence.  It  might  have  been,  that  almost  unsuspected 
by  herself,  a  feeling  of  interest  and  affection,  which  might  ea 
sily  be  ripened  into  love,  was  already  awakened  in  her  bosom, 
for  the  high-spirited,  handsome,  fearless  boy,  who,  in  some 
measure,  owed  his  life  to  her  assistance. 

At  all  events,  she  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  it,  but  let  it  lie 
in  his,  passive,  indeed,  and  motionless,  save  for  its  quivering  pulse, 
but  warm,  and  soft,  and  sensitive.  And  the  boy  waxing  bold 
er,  and  moved  into  earnestness  by  the  charms  of  the  position, 
ventured  to  press  it  once  or  twice,  as  she  read  some  moving 
line,  and  murmured  praises  of  the  author's  beauties,  and  of  the 
sweet,  low  voice  that  lent  to  those  beauties  a  more  thrilling 
loveliness,  and  still  the  fairy  fingers  were  not  withdrawn  from 
his  hold,  though  her  eye  met  not  his,  nor  any  word  of  hers  an 
swered  his  whispered  praises. 

At  length  a  quick,  strong  step  came  suddenly  to  the  door  of 
the  room,  and  almost  before  there  was  time  for  thought,  the 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  Denzil  Olifaunt  entered. 

Instantly  Theresa  started  at  the  sound,  and  strove  to  with 
draw  her  hand,  while  a  deep  blush  of  shame  and  agitation  crim 
soned  her  cheeks  and  brow,  and  even  overspread  her  snowy 
neck  and  bosom. 

It  was  not,  as  that  bold  boy  fancied  at  the  time,  in  the  vanity 
and  insolence  of  his  uncorrected  heart,  that  she  knew  all  the 
time,  that  she  was  allowing  what  it  was  wrong,  and  immodest, 
and  unmaidenly,  to  endure,  and  that  now  she  was  afraid  and 
ashamed,  not  of  the  error,  but  of  the  detection. 

No.  In  the  purity  of  her  heart,  in  the  half-pitiful,  half-pro 
tecting  spirit  which  she  felt  toward  Jasper,  first  as  an  invalid, 
and  then  as  a  mere  boy — for  although  he  was,  perhaps,  a  year 
her  senior,  who  does  not  know  that  boys  in  their  eighteenth 
year  are  a  full  lustre  younger  than  girls  of  the  same  age  —  she 


248  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

had  thought  nothing,  dreamed  nothing  of  impropriety  in  yield 
ing  her  hand  to  the  boy's  affectionate  grasp,  until  the  step  of 
the  man,  whose  proffered  love  she  had  that  very  day  declined, 
led  her  to  think  intuitively  what  would  be  his  feelings,  and 
thence  what  must  be  Jasper's,  concerning  that  permitted  license. 

But  the  wily  boy,  for,  so  young  as  he  was,  he  lacked  neither 
sagacity  to  perceive,  nor  audacity  to  profit  by  occasion,  saw 
his  advantage,  and  holding  his  prize  with  a  gentle  yet  firm 
pressure,  without  so  much  as  turning  his  eyes  to  Denzil,  or 
letting  it  be  known  that  he  was  aware  of  his  presence,  raised  it 
to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it,  saying,  in  a  low,  earnest  tone  : — 

"  I  thank  you,  from  my  very  soul,  for  your  gentleness  and 
kind  attention,  dearest  lady;  your  sweet  voice  has  soothed  me 
more  than  words  can  express  ;  there  must  be  a  magic  in  it,  for 
it  has  charmed  my  headache  quite  away,  and  divested  me, 
moreover,  from  the  least  desire  to  seek  glory,  or  the  gallows, 
with  your  bold  cousin." 

The  eyes  of  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  flashed  fire,  as  he  saw,  as  he 
heard  what  was  passing ;  and  he  made  two  or  three  strides  for 
ward,  with  a  good  deal  of  his  old  impetuosity,  of  both  look  and 
gesture.  His  brow  was  knitted,  his  hands  clinched,  and  his 
lip  compressed  over  his  teeth,  so  closely  that  it  was  white  and 
bloodless. 

But  happily — or  perhaps,  unhappily — before  he  had  time  to 
commit  himself,  he  saw  Theresa  withdraw  her  hand  so  deci 
dedly,  and  with  so  perfect  a  majesty  of  gentle  yet  indignant 
womanhood,  gazing  upon  the  audacious  offender,  as  she  did  so, 
with  eyes  so  full  of  wonder  and  rebuke,  that  he  could  not  doubt 
the  sincerity  or  genuineness  of  her  anger. 

Acquitting  her,  therefore,  of  all  blame  or  coquetry,  and  look 
ing  upon  Jasper  as  a  mere  boy,  and  worthy  to  be  treated  as 
such  only,  reflecting,  moreover,  that  he  was,  for  the  time  being, 
shielded  by  his  infirmity,  he  controlled  himself,  though  not 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  249 

without  an  effort,  and  with  a  lip  now  curling  scornfully,  and  an 
eye  rather  contemptuous  than  angry,  advanced  to  the  fireside, 
and  took  his  seat  beside  his  uncle  and  Sir  Miles,  without  taking 
the  slightest  notice  of  the  others. 

In  the  meantime,  Theresa,  after  she  had  disengaged  her 
hand  from  Jasper,  and  cast  upon  him  that  one  look  of  serene  in 
dignation,  turned  her  back  on  him  quietly,  in  spite  of  some  at 
tempt  at  apology  or  explanation  which  he  began  to  utter. 
Walking  slowly  and  composedly  to  the  table,  she  laid  down  on 
it  the  volume  of  Shakspere  which  she  had  been  reading  to 
him,  and  selecting  some  implements  of  feminine  industry, 
moved  over  to  the  group  assembled  round  the  hearth,  and  sat 
down  on  a  low  footstool,  between  Denzil  and  her  father. 

No  one  but  the  two  young  men  and  herself  were  aware  what' 
had  passed  ;  and  she,  though  annoyed  by  Jasper's  forwardness, 
having,  as  she  thought,  effectually  repelled  it,  had  already  dis 
missed  it  from  her  mind  as  a  thing  worth  jao  further  considera 
tion.  Denzil,  on  the  other  hand,  though  attaching  far  more 
importance  to  his  action,  saw  plainly  that  this  was  not  the  time 
or  the  place  for  making  any  comment  on  it,  even  if  he  had  been 
capable  of  adding  to  Theresa's  embarrassment ;  while  Jasper, 
mortified  and  frustrated  by  the  lady's  scornful  self-possession, 
and  the  free-trader's  manifest  self-contempt,  had  no  better  mode 
of  concealing  his  disappointment,  than  by  sinking  back  upon 
his  pillow,  as  if  fatigued  or  in  pain,  and  feigning  to  fall  gradu 
ally  asleep  —  a  feint  which,  as  is  oftentimes  the  case,  termina 
ted  at  last  in  reality. 

Meanwhile,  the  two  old  men  continued  to  talk  quietly,  in 
rather  a  subdued  tone,  of  old  times  and  the  events  of  their 
youth,  and  thence  of  the  varied  incidents  which  had  checkered 
their  lives,  during  the  long  space  of  time  since  they  had  been 
friends  and  comrades,  with  many  a  light  and  shadow.  And  as 
they,  garrulous,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  aged  and  infirm,  and 


250  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  laudatores  tcmporis  acti"  found  pleasure  even,  in  the  retro 
spect  on  things  which  in  their  day  were  painful,  the  young  man 
sat  beside  them  silent,  oppressed  with  the  burden  of  present 
pain,  and  yet  more  by  the  anticipation  of  worse  suffering  to  be 
endured  thereafter. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed  thus,  without  a  single  word  being  ex 
changed  between  Denzil  and  Theresa  ;  he  musing  deeply,  with 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  as  he  bent  over  the  embers  of  the 
wood  fire,  which  the  vicinity  of  the  cottage  to  the  water's  edge 
rendered  agreeable  even  on  summer  evenings,  and  she  plying 
her  needle  as  assiduously  as  if  she  were  dependent  on  its  ex 
ercise  for  her  support. 

Several  times,  indeed,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  her  candid, 
innocent  face,  and  her  beautiful  blue  eye  clear  and  unclouded, 
as  if  she  wished  to  catch  his  attention.  But  he  was  all  uncon 
scious  of  her  movement,  and  continued  to  ponder  gloomily  on 
many  things  that  had,  and  yet  more  that  had  not,  any  existence 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  own  fitful  fancy. 

At  length  tired  of  waiting  for  his  notice,  the  rather  that  the 
night  was  wearing  onward,  she  arose  from  her  seat,  folding  up 
her  work  as  she  did  so,  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  her  cous 
in's  shoulder — 

"  And  are  you  really  going  to  leave  us  to-morrow,  Denzil  ?" 
she  said,  softly. 

"  For  a  few  days  only,"  he  answered,  raising  his  head,  and 
meeting  her  earnest  eye  with  a  cold,  sad  smile.  "  I  am  going 
to  rjde  down  to-morrow  afternoon  as  far  as  Hexworthy,  where  I 
will  sleep,  and  so  get  into  Plymouth  betimes  the  following  day." 

"  And  when  shall  you  come  back  to  us  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  stay  an  hour  longer  than  I  can  avoid,  Theresa ; 
and  I  think  that  in  three  days  I  may  be  able  to  arrange  all  that 
I  have  to  do  ;  if  so,  you  may  look  for  me  within  the  week —  at 
furthest,  I  shall  be  here  in  ten  days." 


AN    APPOINTMENT.  251 

"  And  how  long  may  we  count  on  keeping  you  here,  then  ? 
It  will  be  long,  I  fear,  before  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  The  ship  can  not  be  fit  for  sea  within  three  weeks,  There 
sa,  or  it  may  be  a  month  ;  and  I  shall  stay  here,  be  sure,  until 
the  last  moment.  But  as  all  mortal  matters  are  uncertain  to  a 
proverb,  and  as  none  of  us  can  say  when,  or  if  ever,  we  shall 
meet  again,  and  as  I  have  much  to  say  to  you  before  I  go  to  sea 
this  time,  will  you  not  walk  in  the  garden  with  me  for  an  hour 
before  breakfast  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Surely  I  will.     How  can  you  doubt  it,  Denzil  ?" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  And  then  I  can  give  you  my  opinion  about 
the  young  nightingales,  which  we  forgot,  after  all,  this  morning. 
I  dare  say  they  will  turn  out  to  be  hedge-sparrows." 

"  I  will  be  there  soon  after  the  sun  is  up,  Denzil,  and  that  I 
may  be  so,  good  night,  all,"  and  with  the  word,  kissing  her 
father's  brow,  and  giving  her  hand  affectionately  to  Denzil,  she 
co'urtesied  to  the  old  cavalier,  and  left  the  room  without  so  much 
as  looking  toward  Jasper,  who  was,  however,  already  fast 
asleep,  and  unconscious  of  all  sublunary  matters. 

Her  rising,  though  she  had  not  joined  in  the  conversation  for 
the  last  hour  or  more,  broke  up  the  company,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  they  had  all  withdrawn,  each  to  his  own  apartment ;  and 
Jasper  was  left  alone,  with  the  brands  dying  out  one  by  one  on 
the  hearth-stone,  and  an  old  tabby  cat  dozing  near  the  andi 
rons  ;  this  night  he  had  no  other  watchers,  and  none  were  there 
to  hear  or  see  what  befell  him  during  the  hours  of  darkness. 

But  had  there  been  any  one  present  in  that  old  apartment,  he 
would  have  seen  that  the  sleep  of  the  young  man  was  strangely 
restless  and  perturbed,  that  the  sweat-drops  stood  in  large  cold 
beads  upon  his  brow,  that  his  features  were  from  time  to  time 
fearfully  distorted,  as  if  by  pain  and  horror,  and  that  he  tossed 
his  arms  to  and  fro,  as  if  he  were  wrestling  with  some  power 
ful  but  intangible  oppressor. 


252  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

From  time  to  time,  moreover,  he  uttered  groans  and  strangely 
murmured  sounds,  and  a  few  articulate  words  ;  but  these  so  un 
connected,  and  at  so  long  intervals  asunder,  that  no  human 
skill  could  have  combined  them  into  anything  like  intelligible 
sentences.  At  length  with  a  wild,  shrill  cry,  he  started  up 
erect  in  his  bed,  his  hair  bristling  with  terror,  and  the  cold 
sweat  flowing  off  his  face  like  rain-drops. 

"O,  God!"  he  cried,  "  avert  —  defend !  Horror!  horror!" 
Then  raising  his  hands  slowly  to  his  brow,  he  felt  himself, 
grasped  his  arm,  and  sought  for  the  pulsations  of  his  heart,  as 
if  he  were  laboring  to  satisfy  himself  that  he  was  awake. 

At  length,  he  murmured,  "  It  was  a  dream  !  The  Lord  be 
praised  !  it  was  but  a  dream  !  and  yet,  how  terrible,  how  vivid  ! 
Even  now  I  can  scarce  believe  that  I  was  not  awake  and  saw  it." 

But  as  his  eye  ran  over  the  objects  to  which  it  had  become 
accustomed  during  the  last  days,  and  which  were  now  indis 
tinctly  visible  in  the  glimmering  darkness  of  a  fine  summer 
night,  he  became  fully  satisfied  that  he  had  been  indeed  asleep ; 
and  with  a  muttered  prayer,  he  settled  himself  down  again  on 
the  pillow,  and  composed  himself  to  sleep  once  more. 

He  had  not  slept,  however,  above  half  an  hour  before  the 
same  painful  symptoms  recurred ;  and  after  even  a  longer  and 
more  agonizing  struggle  than  the  first,  he  again  woke,  panting, 
horror-stricken,  pale  and  almost  paralyzed  with  superstitious 
terror. 

"  It  was  !"  he  gasped,  "  it  was  —  it  must  have  been  in  reality. 
I  saw  her,  as  I  did  last  night,  tangible,  face  to  face  ;  but,  O 
God  !  what  a  glare  of  horror  in  those  beautiful  blue  eyes — what 
a  gory  spot  on  that  smooth,  white  brow — what  agony — -what 
supplication  in  every  lovely  feature.  And  he,  he  who  dealt 
the  blow  —  I  could  not  see  the  face,  but  the  dress,  the  figure, 
nay,  the  seat  on  horseback  —  great  God!  they  were  all  mine 
own !" 


FEARFUL    DREAMS.  253 

He  paused  for  a  long  time,  meditating  deeply,  and  casting 
furtive  glances  around  the  large  old-fashioned  room,  as  though 
he  expected  to  see  some  of  the  great  heavy  shadows  which 
brooded  in  the  dim  angles  and  irregular  recesses  of  the  walls, 
detach  themselves  from  their  lurking-places,  in  the  guise  of 
human  forms  disembodied,  and  come  forth  to  confront  him. 

After  a  while,  however,  his  naturally  strong  intellect  and 
characteristic  audacity  led  him  to  discard  the  idea  of  supernat 
ural  influence  in  the  appalling  vision,  which  had  now  twice  so 
cruelly  disturbed  him.  Still,  so  great  had  been  the  suffering 
and  torture  of  his  mind  during  the  conflict  of  the  sleeping  body 
and  the  sleepless  intellect,  that  he  actually  dreaded  the  return 
of  slumber,  lest  that  dread  phantom  should  return  with  it ;  and 
he  therefore  exerted  himself  to  keep  awake,  and  to  arm  his 
mind  against  the  insidious  stealing  on  of  sleep,  from  very  fear 
of  what  should  follow. 

But  the  very  efforts  which  he  made  to  banish  the  inclination, 
wearied  the  mind,  and  induced  what  he  would  most  avoid  ;  and 
within  an  hour  he  was  again  unconscious  of  all  external  sights 
and  sounds,  again  terribly  alive  to  those  inward  sensations 
which  had  already  terrified  him  almost  beyond  endurance. 

This  time  the  trance  was  shorter,  but  from  the  symptoms 
which  appeared  on  his  features,  fiercer  and  stronger  than  be 
fore  ;  nor,  as  before,  when  he  awoke,  did  the  impression  pass 
away  which  had  been  made  on  him  before  his  eyes-  were 
opened.  No  ;  as  he  started. up  erect,  and  gazed  wildly,  scarce 
as  yet  half  awake,  around  him,  the  first  thing  that  met,  or 
seemed  to  meet  his  staring  eyes,  was  a  gray,  misty  shadow, 
standing  relieved  by  a  dark  mass  of  gloom  in  the  farthest  angle 
of  the  chamber.  Gradually,  as  he  stared  at  it  with  a  fascina 
ted  gaze,  which,  had  it  been  to  save  his  life,  he  could  not  have 
withdrawn,  the  shape,  if  shape  it  were,  drew  nearer,  nearer, 
with  a  slow,  gliding,  ghastly  motion. 

22 


254  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

The  moon  had  by  this  time  arisen,  and  cast  a  feeble,  ineffec 
tual  light  through  the  mass  of  tangled  foliage  which  curtained 
the  large  diamond-paned  casements  of  the  cottage,  streaming 
in  a  dim,  misty  ray  across  the  centre  of  the  chamber.  Direct 
ly  in  the  middle  of  this  pallid  halo,  as  if  it  had  been  a  silver 
glory,  paused,  or  appeared  to  pause,  that  thin,  transparent  form 
—  so  bodiless,  indeed,  it  seemed,  that  the  outlines  of  the  things 
which  stood  beyond  it,  were  visible,  as  if  seen  through  a  gauzy 
curtain.  A  cloud  passed  over  the  moon's  face,  and  all  was 
glgom  ;  yet  still  the  boy's  eyes  felt  the  presence  of  that  disem 
bodied  visitant,  which  they  could  now  no  longer  distinguish  in 
the  darkness. 

At  this  moment,  as  if  to  add  a  real  terror  to  that  which,  even 
if  unreal,  needed  no  addition,  the  cat,  which  hitherto  had  been 
sleeping  undisturbedly  by  the  warm  ashes  on  the  earth,  uttered 
an  unusual  plaintive  cry,  most  unlike  to  the  natural  note  of  her 
species,  whether  of  pleasure  or  of  anger,  and  rushed  at  two  or 
three  long  bounds,  to  the  bed  on  which  the  boy  was  sitting  up 
in  voiceless  horror.  Her  eyes  glared  in  the  darkness,  like  coals 
of  livid  fire,  her  bristles  were  set  up  like  the  quills  of  the  por 
cupine,  her  tail  was  outspread,  till  it  almost  resembled  a  fox's 
brush. 

The  cloud  drifted  onward,  and  the  moon  shone  out  brighter 
than  before  ;  and  there  he  still  saw  that  tall,  white  shape,  clear 
er,  distincter,  stronger,  than  when  he  first  beheld  it.  The  cat 
cowered  down  upon  the  pillow  by  his  side,  with  a  low,  wailing 
cry  of  terror,  her  back,  bristling  in  wrath  but  now,  was  humbly 
lowered,  dread  of  something  unnatural  had  quelled  all  her  sav 
age  instincts. 

Clearer  and  clearer  waxed  the  vision,  and  now  he  might  mark 
the  delicate  symmetrical  proportions  of  the  figure,  and  now  the 
pale,  white  outlines  of  the  lovely  face.  It  was  Theresa  Allan. 
Yet  the  fair  features  were  set  in  a  sort  of  rigid  cataleptic  hor- 


AN    EIDOLON.  255 

ror,  full  of  dread,  full  of  agony  and  consternation  ;  and  the  blue 
eyes  glared,  fixed  and  glassy,  without  speculation ;  and  right 
in  the  centre  of  the  brow  there  glowed,  like  a  sanguine  star,  a 
great  spot  of  gore. 

The  thing  seemed  to  raise  its  arm,  and  point  with  a  gesture 
of  majestic  menace,  right  toward  the  terrified  beholder.  Then 
the  white  lips  were  parted  with  a  slow,  circular  distortion,  show 
ing  the  pearly  teeth  within,  and  —  if  a  voice  came  forth  from 
those  ghastly  lips,  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  knew  it  not,  for  he  had  sunk 
back  on  his  pillow  —  if,  indeed,  he  had  ever,  as  he  believed  to 
the  day  of  his  death,  raised  himself  up  from  it — in  a  deep 
trance,  from  which  he  passed  into  a  dead,  heavy,  dreamless  stu 
por,  which  continued  undisturbed  until  the  sun  was  high  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  whole  household  were  afoot,  and  busied  about 
their  usual  avocations. 

In  the  meantime,  she  whose  image,  whether  in  truth  it  was 
an  eidolon,  or  merely  the  idea  of  a  diseased  mind  and  preoccu 
pied  spirit  had  been  so  busy  during  the  hours  of  darkness,  had 
awakened  all  refreshed  by  light  and  innocent  slumbers,  with 
the  first  peep  of  day,  and  arising  from  her  couch  had  descended 
into  the  garden,  still  half  enveloped  in  the  dewy  vapors  of  the 
summer  night,  half-glimmering  in  the  slant  radiance  of  the  new- 
risen  sun. 

She  was  the  first  at  her  appointment,  for  Denzil  had  not  yet 
made  his  appearance,  and  she  walked  to  and  fro  awaiting  him, 
among  the  flowery  thickets  and  sweet-scented  shrubberies,  all 
bathed  in  the  copious  night-dews,  half-wondering,  half-guessing, 
what  it  could  be  that  he  should  so  earnestly  desire  to  commu 
nicate.  And  as  she  walked,  she  considered  with  herself  all 
that  had  occurred  during  the  last  three  days,  and  the  more  she 
considered,  the  less  was  she  able  to  comprehend  the  workings 
of  her  own  mind,  or  to  explain  to  herself  wherefore  it  was  that 


256  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

she  could  not  divest  herself  of  the  idea  that  the  crisis  of  her 
life,  the  fate  of  her  heart  was  at  hand.  . 

That  she  had  rejected  Denzil's  proffered  love,  his  honest, 
manly  love,  she  knew  that  she  ought  not  to  regret,  for  she  felt 
surely  that  she  could  not  love  him  in  return  as  he  ought,  as  he 
deserved  to  be  loved  ;  and  yet  she  did  almost  regret  it.  Then 
she  began  to  ask  herself  why  she  did  not,  why  she  could  not 
love  him,  endowed  eminently  as  he  was  with  many  high  and 
noble  qualities  ;  and  she  was  soon  answered,  when  she  consid 
ered  how  far  he  fell  short  of  her  standard,  in  mental  and  intel 
lectual  culture,  in  all  that  pertained  to  the  secret  sympathies  of 
the  heart,  to  the  kindred  tastes  and  sentiments,  to  that  commu 
nity  of  hopes  and  wishes,  which,  under  the  head  of-eadem  vclle 
atque  nolle,  the  Roman  philosophical  historian  had  declared  to 
be  the  sole  base  of  true  friendship — might  he  not  better  have 
said  of  true  love  ? 

Thence  by  an  easy  and  natural  transition  the  girl's  thoughts 
turned  to  the  young  stranger — to  his  magnificent  person  and 
striking  intellectual  beauty — to  his  singular  and  original  char 
acter,  so  audacious,  so  full  of  fiery  and  rebellious  self-will,  so 
confident  in  his  own  powers,  so  daring,  almost  insolent  toward 
man,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  fraught  with  gentle  and  sen 
sitive  fancies,  so  rapt  by  romance  or  poetry,  so  liable  to  all 
swift  impressions  of  the  senses,  so  humble,  yet  with  so  proud 
and  self-arrogating  a  humility,  toward  woman. 

She  thought  of  the  tones  of  his  beautifully-modulated  voice, 
of  the  expression  of  his  deep,  clear,  gray  eye  ;  she  remem 
bered  how  the  one  had  melted,  as  it  were,  almost  timorously  in 
her  ear,  how  the  other  had  dwelt  almost  boldly  on  her  face,  yet 
with  a  boldness  which  seemed  meant  almost  as  homage. 

She  mused  on  these  things  ;  and  then  paused  to  reflect  how 
helplessly  and  deathfully  he  had  lain  at  her  feet,  when  he  was 
drawn  forth  from  that  deep,  red  whirlpool ;  and  how  sickly 


A  KEY  TO  WOMAN'S  LOVE.  257 

those  fine  eyes  swam  when  she  first  beheld  them.  How  small 
a  thing  would  have  extinguished,  and  for  ever,  the  faint  spark 
of  life  which  then  feebly  fluttered  in  his  bosom ;  how  childlike 
he  had  yielded  himself  to  her  ministration,  and  with  how  pite 
ous  yet  grateful  an  expression  he  had  acknowledged,  when  he 
awoke  from  his  first  trance-like  stupor,  midway  as  it  were  be 
tween  life  and  death,  the  gentleness  of  her  protection. 

Most  true  it  is,  that  pity  is  akin  to  love  ;  where  pity,  as  is 
seldom  the  case  from  woman  toward  man,  can  exist  apart  from 
something  approaching  to  contempt ;  where  it  is  called  forth  by 
the  consequences  of  neither  physical  nor  mental  weakness. 
Still  more  is  it  the  province  and  the  part  of  woman  to  love 
whom  she  has  protected. 

With  both  sexes,  I  believe  that  to  have  conferred,  rather  than 
to  have  received  kindness — to  be  owed  rather  than  to  owe  grat 
itude — is  conducive  to  the  growth  of  kindly  feeling,  of  friend 
ship,  of  affection,  love  !  But  with  a  true  woman,  to  have  been 
dependent  on  her  for  support,  to  have  looked  up  into  her  eyes 
for  aid  on  the  sick  bed,  for  sympathy  in  mortal  sorrow,  to  have 
revived  by  her  nursing,  to  have  been  consoled  by  her  comfort 
ing —  these  are  the  truest  and  most  direct  key  to  her  affection. 

Theresa  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  as  she  did  so,  her 
bosom  heaved  almost  unconsciously  with  a  sigh,  and  a  tear  rose 
unbidden  to  her  eye.  She  almost  loved  Jasper  St.  Aubyn. 

Again,  to  the  recollection  of  his  boldness  on  the  previous 
evening,  of  his  half-forcible  seizure  of  her  hand,  of  the  kiss 
he  had  so  daringly  imprinted  on  her  soft  fingers,  of  the  too- 
meaning  words  which  he  had  addressed  to  her,  and  of  the  tone, 
which  conveyed  even  more  of  consciousness  and  confidence 
than  the  words  themselves,  all  rushed  at  once  upon  her  mind  ; 
and,  though  she  was  alone,  she  started,  and  her  face  crimsoned 
at  the  mere  memory  of  what  she  half  felt  as  an  indignity. 

"  And  could  he  think  me,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  so 


258  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

light,  so  vain,  so  easy  to  be  won,  that  he  dare  treat  me  thus  at 
almost  a  first  interview  ?  or  was  it  but  the  rashness,  the  impru 
dence,  the  buoyancy  of  extreme  youth,  inspired  by  sudden  love, 
and  encouraged  by  his  own  headstrong  character  ?"  She 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  said  almost  aloud,  "  Oh,  no,  no,  I 
will  not  believe  it." 

"  And  what  will. you  not  believe,  Theresa  ?"  said  a  clear,  firm 
voice,  close  behind  her  ;  "  what  is  it  that  you  are  so  energetical 
ly  determined  not  to  believe,  my  pretty  cousin  ?" 

She  started,  not  well  pleased  that  even  Denzil  should  have 
thus,  as  it  were,  stolen  upon  her  privacy,  and  overheard  what 
was  intended  for  no  mortal  ear.  Theresa  was  as  guileless  as 
any  being  of  mortal  mould  may  be  ;  but  even  the  most  artless 
woman  can  not  be  altogether  free  from  some  touch  of  instinc 
tive  artifice — that  innocent  and  gentle  guile. is  to  woman  what 
nature  has  bestowed  on  all,  even  the  humblest  of  its  creatures, 
her  true  weapon  of  defence,  her  shield  against  the  brute  tyran 
ny  of  man.  And  Theresa  was  a  woman.  She  replied,  there 
fore,  without  an  instant's  hesitation,  although  her  voice  did  fal 
ter  somewhat,  and  her  cheeks  burn,  as  she  spoke  : — 

"  That  you  are  angry  with  me,  Cousin  Denzil."  But  then, 
as  she  felt  his  cold,  clear,  dark  eye — how  piercingly  it  dwelt  up 
on  her  features — reading,  or  striving  to  read,  her  very  soul,  she 
continued,  seeing  at  once  the  necessity  of  placing  him  on  the 
defensive,  so  as  to  turn  the  tide  of  aggressive  warfare,  "  but  / 
am  angry  with  you,  I  assure  you  ;  nor  do  I  think  it  at  all  like 
you,  Denzil,  or  at  all  like  a  true  cavalier,  as  you  pretend  to  be, 
first,  to  keep  a  lady  waiting  for  you,  I  don't  know  how  long, 
here  alone,  and  then  to  creep  upon  her,  like  an  Indian  or  a  spy, 
and  surprise  what  little  secrets  she  might  be  turning  over  in 
her  own  mind.  You  must  have  trodden  lightly  on  purpose,  or 
I  should  have  heard  your  step.  I  did  not  look  for  this  at  your 
hand,  Cousin  Denzil." 


THE    MORNING    INTERVIEW.  259 

He  still  gazed  at  her  with  the  same  dark,  fixed,  piercing 
glance,  without  answering  her  a  word  !  and,  although  conscious 
of  no  wrong,  she  met  his  gaze  with  her  calm,  candid,  truthful 
eye,  she  could  not  endure  his  suspicious  look,  but  was  fluttered, 
and  blushed  deeply,  and  was  so  much  embarrassed,  that  had 
not  pride  and  anger  come  to  her  aid,  she  would  have  burst  into 
tears.  But  they  did  come  to  her  aid,  and  she  cried  with  a  quiv 
ering  voice  and  a  flashing  eye  : — 

"  For  what  do  you  look  at  me  so,  Denzil  ?  I  do  not  like  it 
—  I  will  not  bear  it !  You  have  no  right  to  treat  me  thus  !  it  is 
not  kind,  nor  courteous,  nor  even  manly !  If  it  be  to  browbeat 
me,  and  tyrannize  over  me,  that  you  asked  me  to  meet  you 
here,  I  could  have  thanked  you  to  spare  me  the  request.  But 
I  shall  leave  you  to  yourself,  and  return  home  ;  and  so,  good- 
morrow  to  you,  and  better  breeding,  and  a  better  heart,  too, 
Cousin  Denzil !" 

But  though  she  said  she  was  going,  she  made  no  movement 
to  do  so,  but  hesitated,  waiting  for  his  answer. 

"  You  must  be  greatly  changed,  Theresa,"  he  said  bitterly, 
"  to  take  offence  at  so  slight  a  cause,  or  to  speak  to  me  in  such 
a  tone.  But  you  are  greatly  changed,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  I  am  not  changed  at  all,"  replied  the  girl,  still  chafing  at  the 
recollection  of  that  scrutinizing  eye,  which  she  perhaps  felt  the 
more,  because  conscious  that  her  own  reply  had  not  been  per 
fectly  sincere.  "  But  I  do  not  allow  your  right  to  pry  meanly 
into  my  secret  thoughts,  or  to  catechize  me  concerning  my  words, 
or  to  accuse  me  of  falsehood,  when  I  answer  you." 

"  Accuse  you  of  falsehood,  Theresa  !  who  ever  dreamed  of 
doing  so  ?" 

"  Your  eye  did  so,  sir,"  she  replied.  "  When  I  told  you  that 
I  was  determined  '  not  to  believe  that  you  were  angry  with  me,' 
you  fixed  your  glance  upon  me  with  the  expression  of  a  peda 
gogue,  who,  having  caught  a  child  lying,  would  terrify  if  into 


260  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

truth.  I  am  no  child,  I  assure  you,  Denzil,  nor  are  you  yet  my 
master.  Think  as  you  may  about  it." 

It  was  now  Denzil's  turn  to  be  confused,  for  he  could  not  de 
ny  that  she  had  construed  the  meaning  of  his  look  aright ;  and 
would  not,  so  proud  was  he  and  so  resolute,  either  deny  or 
apologize  for  what  was  certainly  an  act  of  rudeness. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  however,  he  looked  up  at  her  from 
under  downcast  eyelids,  with  a  look  of  defiance  mingled  with 
distrust,  and  answered  bluntly  : — 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  was  your  meaning,  or  that  you  were 
thinking  about  me  at  all." 

"  And  what  if  it  were  not  ?  Am  I  bound,  I  pray  you,  to  be 
thinking  of  nothing  but  you?  I  must  have  little  enough  to 
think  of,  if  it  were  so." 

"  You  might  at  least  have  told  me  so  much,  frankly." 

"  I  thank  you,  Cousin  Denzil,"  she  made  answer,  more 
proudly,  more  firmly  than  ever  he  had  heard  her  speak  before. 
"  I  thank  you,  for  teaching  me  a  lesson,  though  neither  very 
kindly,  nor  exactly  as  a  generous  gentleman  should  teach  a 
lady.  But  you  are  perfectly  correct  in  your  surmises,  sir.  I 
was  not  thinking  of  you  at  all ;  no  more,  sir,  than  if  you  were 
not  in  existence,  and  if  I  answered  you,  as  I  did,  sir,  falsely — 
yes  \falsely  is  the  word !  —  it  is  because,  in  the  first  place,  you 
had  no  right  to  ask  me  the  question  you  did,  and,  in  the  second, 
because  I  did  not  choose  to  answer  it !  Now,  cousin,  allow  me 
to  teach  you  something — for  you  have  something  yet  to  learn, 
wise  as  you  are,  about  us  women.  If  you  ask  a  lady  unman 
nerly  questions,  hereafter,  and  she  turn  them  off  by  a  flippant 
joke,  or  an  unmeaning  falsehood,  understand  that  you  have  been 
very  rude,  and  that  she  does  not  wish  to  be  so  likewise,  by  re 
buking  your  impertinence.  Now,  do  you  comprehend  me  ?" 

"  Perfectly,  madam,  perfectly.  You  have  made  marvellous 
strides  of  late,  upon  my  honor  !  Yesterday  morning  an  unso- 


UNGENEROUS  REPROACHES.  261 

phisticated  country-maiden — this  morning  a  courtly,  quick 
witted,  mano3iivring,  fine  lady  !  God  send  you,  much  good  of 
the  change,  though  I  doubt  it.  I  can  see  all,  read  all,  plainly 
enough  now  —  poor  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  is  not  high  enough,  I 
trow,  for  my  dainty  lady  !  Perchance,  when  he  is  farther  off, 
he  may  be  better  liked,  and  more  needed.  At  all  events,  I  did 
not  look  for  this  at  your  hands,  Theresa,  on  the  last  morning, 
too,  that  we  shall  spend  together  for  so  long  a  time." 

Angry  as  she  was,  and  indignant  at  the  dictatorial  manner  he 
had  assumed  toward  her,  these  last  words  disarmed  her  in  a 
moment.  A  tear  rose  to  her  eyes,  and  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  kindly. 

"  You  are  right,  Denzil,"  she  said,  "  and  I  was  wrong  to  be 
so  angry.  But  you  vexed  me,  and  wounded  me  by  your  man 
ner.  I  am  sorry;  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  you  were 
going  to  leave  us,  and  that  you  have  some  cause  to  be  grieved 
and  irritable.  Pardon  me,  Denzil,  and  forget  what  I  said  hast 
ily.  We  must  not  quarrel,  for  we  have  no  friends  save  one  an 
other,  and  my  dear  old  father." 

But  Denzil's  was  no  placable  mind,  nor  one  that  could  divest 
itself  readily  of  a  preconceived  idea.  "  Oh  !"  he  replied,  "  for 
that,  fair  young  ladies  never  lack  friends.  For  every  old  one 
they  cast  off'  they  win  two  new  ones.  See,  if  it  be  not  so, 
Theresa.  Is  it  not  so  with  you  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  but  softly,  and  then  burst 
into  tears.  "  You  are  ungenerous,"  she  said,  "  ungenerous. 
But  all  men,  I  suppose,  are  alike  in  this — that  they  can  feel  no 
friendship  for  a  woman.  So  long  as  they  hope  for  her  love,  all 
is  submission  on  their  part,  and  humility,  and  gentleness,  and 
lip-service  —  once^they  can  not  win  that,  all  is  bitterness  and 
persecution.  I  did  not  look  for  this  at  your  hand !  But  I  will 
not  quarrel  with  you,  Denzil.  I  dealt  frankly  with  you  yester 
morning ;  I  have  dealt  affectionately  with  you  ever ;  I  will  deal 


262  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

tenderly  and  forgivingly  with  you  now.  I  only  wish  that  you 
had  not  sought  this  interview  with  me,  the  only  object  of  which 
appears  to  have  been  the  embittering  the  last  hours  of  our  in 
tercourse,  and  the  endeavoring  to  wring  and  wound  my  heart. 
But  I  —  " 

"  If  you  had  dealt  frankly  with  me,"  he  interrupted  her,  very 
angrily,  "you  would  have  told  me  honestly  that  you  loved  an 
other." 

"  Loved  another  !     What  do  you  mean  ?     What  other  ?" 

So  evident  was  the  truth,  the  sincerity  of  her  astonishment, 
that  jealousy  itself  was  rebuked  and  put  to  silence  in  the  young 
man's  bosom ;  and  he  endeavored  to  avoid  or  change  the  sub 
ject.  But  the  womanly  indignation  of  the  fair  girl  was  now 
awakened  ;  her  pride  had  been  touched  ;  her  delicacy  wound 
ed  ;  her  sensibilities  assailed  in  the  tenderest  point. 

"  Leave  me  !"  she  said,  after  a  little  pause,  during  which  she, 
in  her  turn  gazing  upon  him,  now  bewildered  and  abashed,  with 
eyes  of  serene  wonder,  not  all  unmingled  with  contempt — 
"  Nay  !  not  another  word — leave  me — begone  '  You  are  not 
worthy  of  a  woman's  love — you  are  not  worthy  to  be  treated  or 
regarded  as  a  man.  Leave  me,  I  say,  and  trouble  me  no  more. 
Poor,  weak,  mean-spirited,  vain,  jealous,  and  ungenerous,  be 
gone  !  You  know — no  man  knows  better — the  falsehood  of 
the  last  words  you  have  spoken.  No  man  knows  better  their 
unfeelingness,  their  ungenerous  cruelty.  But  if  I  had  —  if  I 
had  loved  another  —  in  what  does  that  concern  you?  in  what 
am  I  responsible  to  you  for  my  likings  or  dislikings  ?  Once 
and  for  all  be  jt  said,  I  love  you  not — should  not  love  you, 
were  you  the  only  one  of  your  sex  on  the  face  of  God's  earth 
—  and  I  pray  God  to  help  and  protect  the- woman  who  shall 
love  you  —  if  ever  you  be  loved  of  woman,  which  I  for  one  be 
lieve  not — for  she  shall  love  the  veriest  tyrant  that  ever  tor 
tured  a  fond  heart,  under  the  plea  of  loving." 


A    BRUTAL    TAUNT.  263 

"  I  go,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  answered,  once  and  for  all.  I 
go,  and  may  you  never  need  my  aid,  my  forgiveness." 

"  Forgiveness  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  contemptuous  glance. 
"  Forgiveness  !  I  know  not  what  you  have  to  forgive  !  But 
you  should  rather  pray  that  I  may  have  need  of  them  ;  then 
may  you  have  the  pleasure  of  refusing  me  at  my  need." 

"Ah!  it  is  thus  you  think  of  me.  It  is  time,  then,  that  I 
should  leave  you,  Fare  you  well,  Theresa." 

"  There  is  no  need  for  farewells  at  present.  The  day  is 
early  yet ;  'and  I  trust  still  to  see  your  temper  changed  before 
you  set  forth  on  your  journey.  It  would  grieve  my  father 
sorely  that  you  should  leave  us  thus." 

"  He  will  not  know  how  I  leave  you.  He  will  see  me  no 
more  for  years — perhaps  never  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  That  I  shall  mount  my  horse  within  this  half  hour,  and  re 
turn  no  more  until  I  shall  have  twice  crossed  the  Atlantic.  So 
fare  you  well,  Theresa." 

"  Fare  you  well,  Denzil,  if  it  must  be  so.  And  God  bless 
you,  and  send  you  a  better  mind.  You  will  be  sorry  for  this 
one  day.  There  is  my  hand,  fare  you  well ;  and  rest  assured 
of  this,  return  when  you  may,  you  will  find  me  the  same 
Theresa." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  wrung  it  hard.  "  Farewell,"  he  said. 
"  Farewell ;  and  God  grant  that  when  I  do  return,  I  find  you 
the  wife,  and  not  the  mistress,  of  Jasper  St.  Aubyn." 

Ungenerous  and  bitter  at  the  last,  he  winged  the  shaft  at 
random,  which  he  hoped  would  pierce  the  deepest,  which  he 
trusted  would  prevent  the  consummation  he  most  dreaded  — 
that  she  should  be  the  wife  of  the  boy  whom  he  had  saved, 
whom  he  had  now  hated. 

The  other  contingency,  at  which  he  had  hinted  basely,  un 
manly,  brutally,  he  knew  to  be  impossible — but  he  knew  also, 


264  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

that  the  surmise  would  gall  her  beyond  endurance.  That,  that 
was  the  cruel,  the  unworthy  object  of  the  last  words  Denzil 
Bras-de-fer  ever  exchanged  in  this  world  with  Theresa 
Allan. 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  and,  without  looking  back  once,  strode 
through  the  garden,  with  all  his  better  feelings  lost  and  swal 
lowed  up  in  bitterness  and  hatred  —  entered  his  own  apartment, 
and  there  wrote  a  few  lines  to  his  uncle,  to  the  effect  that  in 
order  to  avoid  the  pain  of  a  parting,  and  the  sorrows  of  a  last 
adieu,  he  had  judged  it  for  the  wisest  to  depart  suddenly  and 
unawares,  and  that  he  should  not  return  to  Widecomb  until  his 
voyage  should  be  ended. 

Then,  leaving  the  house,  where  he  had  passed  so  many  a 
happy  hour,  in  hot  and  passionate  resentment,  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  away  at  a  hard  gallop  across  the  hills  toward 
Hex  worthy  and  Plymouth. 

The  last  words  he  uttered  had  gone  to  Theresa's  heart  like  a 
death-shot.  She  did  not  speak,  or  even  sigh,  as  she  heard 
them,  but  pressed  her  hand  hard  on  her  breast,  and  fell  speech 
less  and  motionless  on  the  dewy  greensward. 

He,  engrossed  by  his  selfish  rage,  and  deafened  to  the  sound 
of  her  fall  by  the  beatings  of  his  own  hard  heart,  stalked  off 
unconscious  what  had  befallen  her ;  and  she  lay  there,  insensi 
ble,  until  the  servant-girl,  missing  her  at  the  breakfast  hour, 
found  her  there  cold,  and,  as  at  first  she  believed,  lifeless. 

She  soon  revived,  indeed,  from  the  swoon ;  but  the  excite 
ment  and  agitation  of  that  scene  brought  on  a  slow,  lingering 
fever  ;  and  weeks  elapsed  ere  she  again  left  her  chamber.  When 
she  did  quit  it,  the  fresh  green  leaves  of  summer  had  put  on 
their  sere  and  yellow  hue,  the  autumn  flowers  were  fast  losing 
their  last  brilliancy,  the  hoar-frosts  lay  white,  in  the  early 
mornings,  over  the  turf-walks  of  her  garden,  ice  had  been  seen 
already  on  the  great  pool  above  the  fords  of  Widecomb,  and 


SAD    THOUGHTS.  265 

everything  gave  notice  that  the  dreary  days  of  winter  were  ap 
proaching,  and  even  now  at  hand. 

The  northwest  winds  howled  long  and  hollow  over  the  open 
hills  and  heathery  wolds  around  Widecomb  manor,  and  ever  as 
their  wild  melancholy  wail  fell  on  the  ears  of  Theresa,  as  she 
sat  by  her  now  lonely  hearth,  they  awoke  a  thought  of  him,  the 
playmate  of  her  happy  childhood,  from  whom  she  had  parted, 
not  as  friends  and  playmates  should  part,  and  who  was  now 
ploughing  the  fair  Atlantic,  perhaps  never  to  return. 

A  shadow  had  fallen  upon  her  brow ;  a  gloom  upon  her 
young  and  happy  life. 

And  where  was  he  who,  unconsciously,  though  not  perhaps 
unintentionally,  had  been  the  cause  of  the  cloud  which  had  arisen, 
and  whence  that  shadow,  that  gloom  ?  Where  was  Jasper  St. 
Aubyn  ? 


23 


PART   II. 


CHAPTER     I. 

THE    WIFE. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better." — BYROX. 

Two  years  had  passed  away  since  Denzil  Bras-de-fer  set 
sail  on  the  Virginia  voyage,  and  from  that  day  no  tidings  had 
been  heard  of  him  in  England. 

In  the  meantime,  changes,  dark,  melancholy  changes,  had  al 
tered  everything  at  Widecomb.  The  two  old  men,  whom  we 
last  saw  conversing  cheerfully  of  times  long  gone,  and  past  joys 
unforgotten,  had  both  fallen  asleep,  to  wake  no  more  but  to  im 
mortality.  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn  slept  with  his  fathers  in  the 
bannered  and  escutcheoned  chapel  adjoining  the  hall,  wherein 
he  had  spent  so  many,  and  those  the  happiest,  of  his  days  ; 
while  William  Allan — he  had  preceded  his  ancient  friend,  his 
old  rival,  but  a  few  weeks  on  their  last  journey — lay  in  the 
quiet  village  churchyard,  beneath  the  shade  of  the  great  lime- 
trees,  among  the  leaves  of  which  he  had  loved  to  hear  the  hum 
of  the  bees  in  his  glad  boyhood.  The  leaves  waved  as  of  old, 
and  twinkled  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  music  of  the  revelling 
bees  was  blithe  as  ever,  but  the  eye  that  had  rejoiced  at  the 
calm  scenery,  the  ear  that  had  delighted  in  the  rural  sound, 
were  dim  and  deaf  for  ever. 


TWO    YEARS    LATER.  267 

Happy — happy  they !  whom  no  more  cares  should  reach, 
no  more  anxieties,  for  ever — who  now  no  more  had  hopes  to 
be  blighted,  joys  to  be  tortured  into  sorrows,  and,  worst  of  all, 
affections  to  breed  the  bitterest  griefs,  and  make  calamity  of  so 
long  life.  Happy,  indeed,  thrice  happy! 

There  was  a  pleasant  parlor,  with  large  oriel  windows  look 
ing  out  upon  the  terrace  of  Widecomb  hall,  and  over  the  beau 
tiful  green  chase,  studded  with  grand  old  oaks,  down  to  the 
deep  ravine  through  which  the  trout  stream  rushed,  in  which 
the  present  lord  of  that  fair  demesne  had  so  nearly  perished  at 
the  opening  of  my  tale. 

And  in  that  pleasant  parlor,  within  the  embrasure  of  one  of 
the  great  ori&ls,  gazing  out  anxiously  over  the  lovely  park,  now 
darkening  with  the  long  shadows  of  a  sweet  summer  evening, 
there  stood  as  beautiful  a  being  as  ever  gladdened  the  eye  of 
friend,  husband,  or  lover,  on  his  return  from  brief  absence 
home. 

It  was  Theresa — Allan  no  longer,  but  St.  Aubyn  ;  and  with 
the  higher  rank  which  she  had  so  deservedly  acquired,  she  had 
acquired,  too,  a  higher  and  more  striking  style  of  beauty.  Her 
slender  girlish  stature  had  increased  in  height,  and  expanded 
in  fullness,  roundness,  symmetry,  until  the  delicate  and  some 
what  fragile  maiden  had  been  matured  into  the  perfect,  full 
blown  woman. 

Her  face  also  was  lovelier  than  of  old ;  it  had  a  deeper,  a 
more  spiritual  meaning.  Love  had  informed  it,  and  experience. 
And  the  genius,  dormant  before,  and  unsuspected  save  by  the 
old  fond  father,  sat  enthroned  visibly  on  the  pale,  thoughtful 
brow,  and  looked  out  gloriously  from  those  serene,  large  eyes, 
filled  as  they  were  to  overflowing  with  a  clear,  lustrous,  tran 
quil  light,  which  revealed  to  the  most  casual  and  thoughtless 
observers,  the  purity,  the  truth,  the  whiteness  of  the  soul 
within. 


268  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

But  if  you  gazed  on  her  more  closely, 

"  You  saw  her  at  a  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too." 

You  saw  that  how  pure,  how  calm,  how  innocent  soever,  she 
was  not  yet  exempt  from  the  hopes,  the  fears,  the  passions,  and 
the  pains  of  womanhood. 

The  woman  was  more  lovely  than  the  girl,  was  wiser,  greater, 
perhaps  better — alas!  was  she  happier  ? 

She  had  been  now  nearly  two  years  a  wife,  though  but  within 
the  last  twelve  months  acknowledged  and  installed  as  such  in 
her  husband's  house.  It  had  been  a  dark  mystery,  her  love  — 
the  child  of  sorrow  and  concealment,  although  she  might  thank 
her  own  true  heart,  guided  by  principle,  and  lighted  by  a  higher 
star  than  any  earthly  passion,  even  the  love  of  God,  it  had  not 
been  the  source  of  shame. 

Artfully,  yet  enthusiastically,  had  that  bold,  brilliant,  fascina 
ting  boy  laid  siege  to  her  affections  ;  and  soon,  by  dint  of  kin 
dred  tastes,  and  feelings,  and  pursuits,  he  had  succeeded  in 
winning  the  whole  perfect  love  of  that  pure,  overflowing  soul. 

She  loved  him  with  that  fervor,  that  devotion  of  which  women 
alone  are  perhaps  capable,  and  of  women  only  those  who  are 
gifted  with  that  extreme  sensibility,  that  exquisite  organization, 
which,  rendering  them  the  most  charming,  the  most  fascinating, 
and  the  most  susceptible  of  their  sex,  too  often  renders  them 
the  least  happy. 

And  he,  too,  loved  her  —  as  well,  perhaps,  as  one  of  his  char 
acter  and  temperament  could  love  anything,  except  himself ;  he 
loved  her  passionately  ;  he  admired  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her 
delicacy,  beyond  measure.  He  understood  and  appreciated  her 
exquisite  taste,  her  brilliancy,  her  feminine  and  gentle  genius. 
He  was  not  happy  when  he  was  absent  from  her  side  ;  he 
could  not  endure  the  idea  that  she  should  love,  or  even  smile 
upon  another,  he  coveted  the  possession  of  a  creature  so  beau- 


THE    SECRET  WOOER.  269 

tiful,  a  soul  so  powerful,  and  at  the  same  time  so  loving.  Above 
all,  he  was  proud  to  be  loved  by  such  a  being. 

But  beyond  this  he  no  more  loved  her,  than  the  child  loves 
its  toy.  He  held  her  only  in  his  selfishness  of  soul,  even  before 
his  passion  had 

"  Spent  as  yet  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse." 

But  he  knew  nothing,  felt  nothing,  understood  nothing  of  her 
higher,  better  self;  he  saw  nothing  of  her  inner  light — guessed 
nothing  of  what  a  treasure  he  had  won. 

He  would  have  sacrificed  nothing  of  his  pleasures,  nothing 
of  his  prejudices,  nothing  of  his  pride,  had  such  a  sacrifice  been 
needed  to  make  her  the  happiest  of  women.  While  she  would 
have  laid  down  her  life  for  the  mere  delight  of  gaining  him  one 
moment's  joy — would  have  sacrificed  all  that  she  had,  or  hoped 
to  have,  save  honor,  faith,  and  virtue.  And  to  yield  these  he 
never  asked  her. 

No !  in  the  wildest  dream  of  his  reckless,  unprincipled  im 
agination,  he  never  fancied  to  himself  the  possibility  of  tempt 
ing  her  to  lawless  love.  In  the  very  boldest  of  his  audacious 
flights,  he  never  would  have  dared  to  whisper  one  loose  thought, 
one  questionable  wish,  in  the  maiden's  ear.  It  had,  perhaps, 
been  well  he  had  done  so  —  for  on  that  instant,  as  the  night- 
mists  melt  away  and  leave  the  firmament  pure  and  transparent  at 
the  first  glance  of  the  great  sun,  the  cloud  of  passion  which  ob 
scured  her  mental  vision  would  have  been  scattered  and  dis 
persed  from  her  clear  intellect  by  the  first  word  that  had  flashed 
on  her  soul  conviction  of  his  baseness. 

But  whether  the  wish  ever  crossed  his  mind  or  not,  he  never 
gave  it  tongue,  nor  did  she  even  once  suspect  it. 

Still  he  had  wooed  her  secretly — laying  the  blame  on  his 
father's  pride,  his  father's  haughty  and  high  ambition,  which  he 
insisted  would  revolt  at  the  bare  idea  of  his  wedding  with  any 

23* 


270  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

lady,  who  could  not  point  to  the  quarterings  of  a  long,  noble  line 
of  ancestry  ;  he  had  prevailed  on  her,  first  to  conceal  their  love, 
and  at  length  to  consent  to  a  secret  marriage. 

It  was  long,  indeed,  ere  he  could  bring  her  to  agree  even  to 
that  clandestine  step  ;  nor,  had  her  father  lived  but  a  few  weeks 
longer,  would  he  have  done  so  ever. 

The  old  man  died,  however,  suddenly,  and  at  the  very  mo 
ment  when,  though  she  knew  it  not,  his  life  was  most  necessary 
to  his  daughter's  welfare:  He  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  after 
one  of  those  strange,  mysterious  seizures,  to  which  he  had  for 
many  years  been  subject,  and  during  which  he  had  appeared 
to  be  endowed  with  something  that  approached  nearly  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  future.  Although,  if  such  were,  indeed,  the 
case,  it  was  scarce  less  wonderful  that  on  the  passing  away  of 
the  dark  fit,  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  that  he  had  seen 
and  enunciated  of  what  should  be  thereafter. 

Be  this,  however,  as  it  may — he  was  found  by  his  unhappy 
child,  dead,  and  already  cold ;  but  with  his  limbs  composed  so 
naturally,  and  his  fine  benevolent  features  wearing  so  calm  and 
peaceful  an  expression,  that  it  was  evident  he  had  passed  away 
from  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow,  during  his  sleep,  without  a 
pang  or  a  struggle.  Never  did  face  of  mortal  sleeper  give  sure/ 
token  of  a  happy  and  glorious  awakening. 

But  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  alone,  friendless,  helpless,  and 
unprotected. 

How  friendless,  how  utterly  destitute  and  helpless,  she  knew 
not,  nor  had  even  suspected,  until  the  last  poor  relics  of  her 
only  kinsman,  save  he  who  was  a  thousand  leagues  aloof  on  the 
stormy  ocean,  had  been  consigned  to  the  earth,  whence  they 
had  their  birth  and  being.  Then,  when  his  few  papers  were 
examined,  and  his  affairs  scrutinized  by  his  surviving,  though 
now  fast  declining  friend,  St.  Aubyn,  it  appeared  that  he  had 
been  supported  only  by  a  life  annuity,  which  died  with  himself, 


THE  UNPROTECTED  ORPHAN.  271 

and  that  he  had  left  nothing  but  the  cottage  at  the  fords,  with 
the  few  acres  of  garden-ground,  and  the  slender  personal  prop 
erty  on  the  premises,  to  his  orphan-child. 

It  was  rendered  probable  by  some  memoranda  and  brief  notes, 
found  among  his  papers,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  occupied 
by  abstruse  mathematical  problems,  <md  yet  wilder  astrological 
calculations,  that  he  had  looked  forward  to  the  union  of  his 
daughter  with  the  youth  whom  he  had  brought  up  as  his  own 
son,  and  whose  ample  means,  as  well  as  his  affection  for  the 
lovely  girl,  left  no  doubt  of  his  power  and  willingness  to  become 
her  protector. 

What  he  had  observed,  during  his  sojourn  at  the  cottage,  led 
old  Sir  Miles,  however,  who  had  assumed,  as  an  act  of  duty, 
no  less  than  of  pleasure,  the  character  of  executor  to  his  old 
friend,  to  suspect  that  the  simple-minded  sage  had  in  some  sort 
reckoned  without  his  host ;  and  that  on  one  side,  at  least,  there 
would  be  found  insuperable  objections  to  his  views  for  Theresa's 
future  life.  And  in  this  opinion  he  was  confirmed  immediately 
by  a  conversation  which  he  had  with  the  poor  girl,  so  soon  as 
the  first  poignant  agony  of  grief  had  passed  from  her  mind. 

In  this  state  of  affairs,  an  asylum  at  the  manor  was  offered 
by  the  old  cavalier,  and  accepted  by  the  orphan  with  equal 
frankness,  but  with  a  most  unequal  sense  of  obligation — Sir 
Miles  regarding  his  part  in  the  transaction  as  a  thing  of  course, 
Theresa  looking  on  it  as  an  action  of  the  most  exalted  and  ex 
traordinary  generosity. 

In  truth,  it  had  occurred  already  to  the  mind  of  the  old  knight 
so  soon  as  he  was  satisfied  within  himself  that  Theresa's  affec 
tions  were  not  given  to  her  wild  and  dangerous  cousin,  that  he 
would  gladly  see  her  the  wife  of  his  own  almost  idolized  boy. 
For,  though  of  no  exalted  or  ennobled  lineage,  she  was  of  gen 
tle  blood,  of  an  honorable  parentage,  which  had  been  long  es 
tablished  in  the  county,  and  which,  if  fallen  in  fortunes,  had 


272  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

never  lost  caste,  or  been  degraded,  as  he  would  assuredly  have 
deemed  it,  by  participation  in  any  mechanical  or  mercantile  pur 
suit.  He  had  seen  enough  of  courts  and  courtiers  to  learri  their 
hollowness,  and  all  the  empty  falsehood  of  their  gorgeous  show 
— he  had  mingled  enough  in  the  great  world  to  be  convinced 
that  real  happiness  was  not  to  be  sought  in  the  hurlyburly  of  its 
perilous  excitement,  and  incessant  strife  ;  and  that  which  would 
have  rendered  him  the  happiest,  would  have  been  to  see  Jasper 
established,  tranquilly,  and  at  his  ease,  with  domestic  bonds  to 
insure  the  permanency  of  his  happiness,  before  his  own  time 
should  come,  as  the  lord  of  Widecomb. 

And  such  were  his  views  when  he  prevailed  on  Theresa  to 
let  the  House  in  the  Woods  be  her  home,  until  at  least  such 
time  as  news  could  be  received  of  her  cousin ;  who,  certainly, 
whatever  might  be  the  relative  state  of  their  affections,  would 
never  suffer  her  to  want  a  home  or  a  protector. 

He  had  observed  that  Jasper  was  struck  deeply  by  the  charms 
of  the  sweet  girl ;  he  knew,  although  he  had  affected  not  to 
know  it,  that,  under  the  pretence  of  fishing  or  shooting  excur 
sions,  he  had  been  in  the  almost  daily  habit  of  visiting  her, 
since  the  accident  which  had  led  to  their  acquaintance  ;  and  he 
was,  above  all,  well  assured  that  the  girl  loved  him  with  all  the 
deep,  unfathomable  devotion  of  which  such  hearts  as  hers  alone 
are  capable. 

Well  pleased  was  he,  therefore,  to  see  the  beautiful  being 
established  in  the  halls  of  which  he  hoped  to  see  her,  ere  long, 
the  mistress ;  and  if  he  did  not  declare  his  wishes  openly  to 
either  on  the  subject,  it  was  that  he  was  so  well  aware  of  his 
son's  headstrong  and  wilful  temper,  that  he  knew  him  fully 
capable  of  refusing  peremptorily  the  very  thing  which  he  most 
desired,  if  proffered  to  him  as  a  boon,  much  more  urged  upon 
him  as  the  desire  of  a  third  party — which  he  was  certain  to 
regard  as  an  interference  with  his  free  will  and  self-regulation 


THE  LOVER'S  ARTIFICES.  273 

—while,  at  the  same  time  he  feared  to  alarm  Theresa's  deli 
cacy,  by  anticipating  the  progress  of  events. 

Thus,  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  affection  for  that  wild, 
wilful,  passionate  boy,  released  from  the  only  tie  of  obedience 
or  restraint  that  could  have  bound  her,  poor  Theresa  was  de 
livered  over,  fettered  as  it  were,  hand  and  foot,  to  the  perilous 
influence  of  Jasper's  artifices,  and  the  scarce  less  dangerous 
suggestions  of  her  own  affections. 

It  was  strange  that,  quick  as  she  was  and  clever,  even  beyond 
her  sex's  wonted  penetration,  where  matters  of  the  heart  are 
concerned,  Theresa  never  suspected  that  the  old  cavalier  had 
long  perceived  and  sanctioned  their  growing  affection.  But 
idolizing  Jasper  as  she  did,  and  believing  him  all  that  was  high 
and  generous  and  noble,  seeing  that  all  his  external  errors 
tended  to  the  side  of  rash,  hasty  impulse,  never  to  calculation 
or  deceit,  she  saw  everything,  as  it  were,  through  his  eyes,  and 
was  easily  induced  by  him  to  believe  that  all  his  fatherlike 
kindness  and  fatherlike  attention  to  her  slightest  wish,  arose 
only  from  his  love  for  her  lost  parent,  and  compassion  for  her 
sad  abandonment ;  nay,  further,  he  insisted  that  the  least  sus 
picion  of  their  mutual  passion  would  lead  to  their  instant  and 
eternal  separation. 

It  was  lamentable,  that  a  being  so  bright,  so  excellent  as  she, 
believing  that  such  was  the  case,  and  bound  as  she  was  by  the 
closest  obligations,  the  dearest  gratitude  to  that  good  old  man, 
should  have  consented,  even'for  a  moment,  to  deceive  him,  much 
more  to  frustrate  his  wishes  in  a  point  so  vital. 

But  she  was  very  young  —  she  had  been  left  without  the 
training  of  a  mother's  watchful  heart,  without  the  supervision  of 
a  mother's  earnest  eye  —  she  was  endowed  marvellously  with 
those  extreme  sensibilities  which  are  invariably  a  part  of  that 
high  nervous  organization,  ever  connected  with  poetical  genius. 
She  loved  Jasper  with  a  devotedness,  a  singleness,  and  at  the 


274  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

same  time  a  consuming  heat  of  passion,  which  scarcely  could 
be  believed  to  exist  in  one  so  calm,  so  self-possessed,  and  so 
innocently-minded  —  and,  above  all,  she  had  none  else  in  the 
wide  world  on  whom  to  fix  her  affections. 

And  the  boy  profited  by  this  ;  and  with  the  sharpness  of  an 
intellect,  which,  if  far  inferior  to  hers  in  deptli  and  real  great 
ness,  was  as  far  superior  to  it  in  worldly  selfishness  and  in 
stinctive  shrewdness,  played  upon  her  nervous  temperament, 
till  he  could  make  each  chord  of  her  secret  soul  thrill  to  his 
touch,  as  if  they  had  been  the  keys  of  a  stringed  instrument. 

The  hearts  of  the  young  who  love,  must  ever,  must  naturally 
resent  all  interference  of  the  aged,  who  would  moderate  or  op 
pose  their  love,  as  cold,  intrusive  tyranny  ;  and  thus,  with  plau 
sible  and  artful  sophistry,  abetted  by  the  softness  of  her  treach 
erous  heart,  too  willing  to  be  deceived,  he  first  led  her  to  regard 
his  father  as  opposed  to  the  wishes  of  that  true  love,  which,  for 
all  the  great  poet  knew  or  had  heard,  "  never  did  run  smooth," 
and  thence  to  resent  that  opposition  as  unkind,  unjust,  tyranni 
cal.  And  thence  —  alas!  for  Theresa! — to  deceive  the  good 
old  man,  her  best  friend  on  earth — ay,  to  deceive  herself. 

It  is  not  mine  to  palliate,  much  less  to  justify  her  conduct. 
I  have  but  to  relate  a  too  true  tale  ;  and  in  relating  it,  to  show, 
in  so  for  as  I  can,  the  mental  operations,  the  self-deceptions, 
and  the  workings  of  passion  —  from  which  not  even  the  best 
and  purest  of  mankind  are  exempt — by  which  an  innocent  and 
wonderfully-constituted  creature  was  betrayed  into  one  fatal 
error. 

She  was  persuaded  —  words  can  tell  no  more. 

It  was  a  grievous  fault,  and  grievously  Theresa  answered  it. 

When  ill  things  are  devised,  and  to  be  done,  ill  agents  are 
soon  found,  especially  by  the  young,  the  wealthy,  and  the  pow 
erful. 

The  declining  health  of  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn  was  no  secret 


SUPPLE    TOOLS    OF    POWER.  275 

in  the  neighborhood — the  near  approach  of  his  death  was  al 
ready  a  matter  of  speculation  ;  and  already  men  almost  looked 
upon  Jasper  as  the  lord,  in  esse,  of  the  estates  of  Widecomb 
manor. 

The  old  white-headed  vicar  had  a  son,  poor  like  himself,  and 
unaspiring  —  like  himself,  in  holy  orders  ;  and  for  him,  when 
his  own  humble  career  should  be  ended,  he  hoped  the  rever 
sion  of  the  vicarage,  which  was  in  the  gift  of  the  proprietor 
of  Widecomb.  The  old  man  had  known  Jasper  from  his  boy 
hood,  had  loved  Theresa,  whom  he  had,  indeed,  baptized,  from 
her  cradle.  He  was  very  old  and  infirm,  and  some  believed 
that  his  intellect  was  failing.  Between  his  affection  for  the 
parties,  and  his  interest,  in  his  son's  welfare,  it  was  easy  to 
frame  a  plausible  tale,  which  should  work  him  to  Jasper's  will ; 
and  with  even  less  difficulty  than  the  boy  looked  for,  he  was 
prevailed  upon  to  unite  them  secretly,  and  at  the  dead  of  night, 
in  the  parish-church  at  the  small  village  by  the  fords. 

The  sexton  of  the  parish-church  was  a  low  knave,  with  no 
thought  beyond  his  own  interest,  no  wish  but  for  accumulation 
of  gain.  A  gamekeeper,  devoted  to  the  young  master's  worst 
desires,  a  fellow  who  had  long  ministered  to  his  most  evil 
habits,  and  had,  in  no  small  degree,  assisted  to  render  him 
what  he  was,  only  too  willingly  consented  to  aid  in  an  affair 
which  he  saw  clearly  would  put  the  young  heir  in  his  power 
for  ever. 

He  was  selected  as  one  of  the  witnesses  —  for  without  wit 
nesses,  the  good  but  weak  old  vicar  would  not  perform  the  cer 
emony  ;  and  he  promised  to  bring  a  second,  in  the  person  of 
his  aged  and  doting  mother,  the  respectability  of  whose  appear 
ance  should  do  away  with  any  scruples  of  Theresa's  while  her 
infirmity  should  render  her  a  safe  depository  of  the  most  dan 
gerous  secret. 

And  why  all  this  mystery — this  tortuous  and  base  deviation 


276  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

from  the  path  of  right — this  unnecessary  concealment,  and  un 
meaning  deceit  ? 

Wherefore,  if  the  boy  were,  indeed,  what  he  has  been  de 
scribed,  and  no  more  —  impulsive,  wilful,  rash,  headlong,  irre 
sistible  in  his  impulses  —  if  not  a  base  traitor,  full  of  dark  plots,- 
deep-laid  beforehand — wherefore,  if  he  did  love  the  girl,  with 
all  the  love  of  which  his  character  was  capable,  if  he  had  not 
predetermined  to  desert  her  —  wherefore  did  he  not  wed  her 
openly  in  the  light  of  day,  amid  crowds  of  glad  friends,  and 
rejoicing  dependants  ?  Why  did  he  not  gladden  the  heart  of 
his  aged  father,  and  lead  her  to  the  home  of  his  ancestors,  a  hap 
py  and  honored  bride,  without  that  one  blot  on  her  conscience, 
without  that  one  shadow  of  deceit,  which  marred  the  perfect 
truthfulness  of  her  character,  and  in  after-days  weighed  on  her 
mind  heavily  ? 

A  question  to  which  no  answer  can  be  given,  unless  it  be 
that  to  tortuous  minds  the  tortuous  method  is  ever  the  readiest ; 
and  intrigue — only  for  that  it  is  intrigue  —  a  joy  to  the  in 
triguer. 


THE    TORTUOUS    PATH    OP    WRONG.  277 


CHAPTER    II. 

;*•*%  THE    TEMPTER. 

"  If  that  them  be  a  devil,  I  can  not  kill  thee."— OTHELLO. 

READER,  the  heart  of  man  is  a  strange  compound,  a  deceit 
ful  thing. 

Jasper  St.  Aubyn  did  love  Theresa  Allan,  as  I  have  said  be 
fore,  with  all  the  love  which  he  could  bestow  on  anything  di 
vine  or  human.  His  passion  for  the  possession  of  her  charms, 
both  personal  and  mental,  was,  as  his  passions  ever  were,  inor 
dinate.  His  belief  in  her  excellence,  her  purity,  in  the  stabil 
ity  of  her  principles,  the  impregnable  strength  of  her  virtue, 
could  not  be  proved  more  surely  than  by  the  fact,  that  he  had 
never  dared  an  attempt  to  shake  them.  His  faith  in  her  adora 
tion  for  himself  was  as  firm-fixed  as  the  sun  in  heaven.  And, 
lastly,  his  conviction  of  the  constancy  of  his  own  love  toward 
her,  of  the  impossibility  of  that  love's  altering  or  perishing,  was 
strong  as  his  conviction  of  his  own  being. 

But  he  was  one  of  those  singularly-constituted  beings,  who 
will  never  take  an  easy  path  when  he  has  the  option  of  one 
more  difficult ;  never  follow  the  straight  road  when  he  can  see 
a  tortuous  byway  leading  to  the  same  end. 

Had  his  father  as  he  pretended,  desired  to  thwart  his  will, 
or  prevent  his  marriage  with  Theresa,  for  that  very  cause  he 
would  have  toiled  indefatigably,  till  he  had  made  her  his  own 
in  the  face  of  day.  Partly  swayed  by  a  romantic  and  half- 
chivalrous  feeling,  which  loved  to  build  up  difficulties  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  surmounting  them,  partly  urged  on  by  pure 
wilfulness  and  recklessness  of  temper,  he  chose  evil  for  his 

24 


278  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

good,  he  rushed  into  deceit  where  truth  would,  in  fact,  have 
served  his  purpose  better.  A  boyish  love  of  mystery  and  mis 
chief  might  probably  have  had  its  share  likewise  in  his  strange 
conduct,  and  a  sort  of  self-pride  in  the  skill  with  which  he  man 
aged  his  plot,  and  worked  the  minds  of  older  men  into  submis 
sion  to  his  own  will.  Lastly,  to  compel  ThereSa  to  this  sacri 
fice  of  her  sense  of  duty  and  propriety,  to  this  abandonment  of 
principle  to  passion,  appeared  to  his  perverted  intellect  a  migh 
ty  victory,  an  overwhelming  proof  of  her  devotedness  to  his 
selfish  will. 

If  there  were  any  darker  and  deeper  motive  in  his  mind,  it 
was  unconfessed  to  himself;  and  in  truth,  I  believe,  none  such 
then  existed.  If  such  did  in  after-times  grow  up  within  him, 
it  arose  probably  from  a  perception  of  the  fatal  facility  which 
that  first  fraud,  with  its  elaborate  deceits,  had  given  him  for 
working  further  evil. 

Verily,  it  is  wise  to  pray  that  we  be  not  tempted.  The  per 
ilous  gift  of  present  opportunity  has  made  many  a  one,  who  had 
else  lived  innocent,  die,  steeped  to  the  very  lips  in  guilt. 

Such  were  the  actuating  motives  of  his  conduct ;  of  her  pure 
love,  and  the  woman's  dread  of  losing  what  she  loved,  by  over- 
vehement  resistance. 

At  the  dead  of  a  dark,  gusty  night  in  autumn,  when  the  young 
moon  was  seen  but  at  rare  intervals  between  the  masses  of 
dense,  driving  wrack  wrhich  swept  continuously  across  the 
leaden-colored  firmament  before  the  wailing  west  winds,  when 
the  sere  leaves  came  drifting  down  from  the  great  trees,  like 
the  ghosts  of  departed  hopes,  when  the  long,  mournful  howl  of 
some  distant  ban-dog  baying  the  half-seen  moon,  and  the  dis 
mal  hootings  of  the  answered  owls,  were  the  only  sounds 
abroad,  the  poor  girl  stole,  like  a  guilty  creature,  from  her  vir 
gin-chamber,  and,  faltering  at  every  ray  of  misty  light,  every 
dusky  shadow  that  wavered  across  her  way,  as  she  threaded 


THE    MIDNIGHT    MARRIAGE.  279 

the  long  corridors,  crept  stealthily  down  the  great  oaken  stair 
case,  and  joined  her  young  lover  in  the  stone-hall  below. 

Her  palfrey  and  his  hunter  stood  saddled  at  the  foot  of  the 
terrace  steps,  and,  almost  without  a  word  exchanged  between 
them,  she  found  herself  mounted  and  riding,  with  her  right 
hand  clasped  in  his  burning  fingers,  through  the  green  chase 
toward  the  village. 

The  clock  was  striking  midnight — ill-omened  hour  for  such 
a  rite  as  that — in  the  tower  of  the  parish-church,  as  Jasper  St. 
Aubyn  sprung  to  the  ground  before  the  old  Saxon  porch,  and 
lifting  his  sweet  bride  from  the  saddle,  fastened  the  bridles  of 
their  horses  to  the  hooks  in  the  churchyard-Wall,  and  entered 
the  low-browed  door  which  gave  access  to  the  nave. 

A  single  dim  light  burned  on  the  altar,  by  which  the  old 
vicar,  robed  in  his  full  canonicals,  awaited  them,  with  his 
knavish  assistant,  and  the  two  witnesses  beside  him. 

Dully  and  unimpressively,  at  that  unhallowed  hour,  and  by  that 
dim  light,  the  sacred  rite  was  performed  and  the  dread  adjura 
tion  answered,  and  the  awful  bond  undertaken,  which,  through 
all  changes,  and  despite  all  chances  of  this  mortal  life,  makes 
two  into  one  flesh,  until  death  shall  them  sever. 

The  gloom,  the  melancholy,  the  nocturnal  horror  of  the  scene 
sunk  deeply  on  Theresa's  spirit ;  and  it  was  in  the  midst  of 
tears  and  shuddering  that  she  gave  her  hand  and  her  heart  to 
one,  who,  alas !  was  too  little  capable  of  appreciating  the  in 
valuable  treasure  he  had  that  night  been  blessed  withal.  And 
even  when  the  ceremony  was  performed,  and  she  was  his  im 
mutably  and  for  ever,  as  they  rode  home  as  they  had  come, 
alone,  through  the  dim  avenues  and  noble  chase,  which  were 
now  in  some  sort  her  own,  there  was  none  of  that  buoyan 
cy,  that  high,  exulting  hope,  that  rapture  of  permitted  love, 
which  is  wont  to  thrill  the  bosoms  of  young  and  happy  brides. 

Nor,  on  the  following  day,  was  the  melancholy  gloom  which, 


280 


JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 


despite  all  her  young  husband's  earnest  and  fond  endeavors  to 
cheer  and  compose  her,  still  overhung  her  mind,  in  anywise 
removed  by  the  tidings  which  reached  the  manor  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

The  aged  vicar,  so  the  tale  went,  had  been  called  by  some 
unusual  official  duty  to  the  parish-church,  long  after  it  was  dark, 
and  in  returning  home,  had  fallen  among  the  rocks,  having 
strayed  from  the  path,  and  injured  himself  so  severely  that  his 
life  was  despaired  of. 

So  eagerly  did  Jasper  proffer  his  services,  and  with  an  alac 
rity  so  contrary  to  his  usual  sluggishness,  when  his  own  inter 
ests  were  not  at  stake,  did  he  order  his  horse  and  gallop  down 
to  the  village  to  visit  his  old  friend,  that  his  father  smiled,  well 
pleased,  and  half-laughingly  thanked  Theresa,  when  the  boy 
had  gone  ;  saying  that  he  really  believed  her  gentle  influence 
was  charming  some  of  Jasper's  wilfulness  away,  and  that  he 
trusted  ere  long  to  see  him,  through  her  precept  and  example, 
converted  into  a  milder  and  more  humanized  mood  and  temper. 

Something  swelled  in  the  girl's  bosom,  and  rose  to  her  throat, 
half-choking  her — the  liysterica  passio  of  poor  Lear — as  the 
good  old  man  spoke,  and  the  big  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes. 

It  was  by  the  mightiest  effort  only  that  she  kept  down  the 
almost  overmastering  impulse  which  prompted  her  to  cast  her 
self  down  at  the  old  man's  feet,  and  confess  to  him  what  she 
had  done,  and  so  implore  his  pardon  and  his  blessing. 

Had  she  done  so,  most  happy  it  had  been  for  her  unhappy 
self ;  more  happy  yet  for  one  more  miserable  yet,  that  should  be  ! 

Had  she  done  so,  she  had  crowned  the  old  man's  last  days 
with  a  halo  of  happiness  that  had  lighted  him  down  the  steps 
to  the  dusky  grave  rejoicing — she  had  secured  to  herself,  and 
to  him  whom  she  had  taken  for  better  or  for  worse,  innocence, 
and  security,  and  self-respect,  and  virtue,  which  are  happiness  ! 

She  did  it  not ;  and  she  repented  not  then — for  when  she 


THE    AGED    VICAR'S    DEATH.  281 

told  Jasper  how  nearly  she  had  confessed  all,  his  brow  grew 
as  dark  as  night,  and  he  put  her  from  him,  exclaiming  with  an 
oath,  that  had  she  done  so,  he  had  never  loved  her  more — but 
did  she  not  repent  thereafter  1 

It  was  late  when  Jasper  returned,  and  he  was,  to  all  outward 
observers,  sad  and  thoughtful ;  but  Theresa  could  read  some 
thing  in  his  countenance,  which  told  her  that  he  had  derived 
some  secret  satisfaction  from  his  visit. 

In  a  word,  the  danger,  apprehension  of  which  had  so  prompt 
ed  Jasper's  charity,  and  quickened  his  zeal  in  well-doing — the 
danger,  that  the  old  clergyman  should  divulge  in  extremis  the 
duty  which  had  led  him  to  the  church  at  an  hour  so  untimely, 
was  at  an  end  for  ever.  He  was  dead,  and  had  never  spoken 
since  the  accident,  which  had  proved  fatal  to  his  decrepit  frame 
and  broken  constitution. 

Moreover,  to  make  all  secure,  he  had  seen  the  rascal  sexton, 
and  secured  him  for  ever,  by  promising  him  an  annuity  so  long 
as  the  secret  should  be  kept ;  while  craftier  and  older  in  iniqui 
ty  than  he,  and  suspecting — might  it  not  be  foreseeing — deep 
er  iniquity  to  follow,  the  villain,  who  now  alone,  with  the  sub 
orned  witnesses,  knew  what  had  passed,  stole  into  the  chancel, 
and  cut  out  from  the  parish-register  the  leaf  which  contained 
the  record  of  that  unhappy  marriage. 

It  is  marvellous  how  at  times  all  things  appear  to  work  pros 
perously  for  the  success  of  guilt,  the  destruction  of  innocence  ; 
but,  of  a  truth,  the  end  of  these  things  is  not  here. 

It  so  fell  out  that  the  record  of  Theresa  Allan's  union  with 
Jasper  St.  Aubyn,  was  the  first  entry  on  a  fresh  leaf  of  the 
register.  One  skilful  cut  of  a  sharp  knife  removed  that  leaf  so 
as  to  defy  the  closest  scrutiny ;  had  one  other  name  been  in 
scribed  thereon,  before  hers,  she  had  been  saved. 

Alas  !  for  Theresa  ! 

But  to  do  Jasper  justice,  he  knew  not  of  this  villany ;  nor, 
24* 


282  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

had  he  known,  would  he  then  have  sanctioned  it.  He  only 
wished  to  secure  himself  against  momentary  discovery. 

The  ill  consequences  of  this  folly,  this  mysterious  and  un 
meaning  craft,  had  now,  in  some  degree,  recoiled  upon  himself. 
And  delighting,  as  he  really  did,  in  the  closest  intercourse  with  his 
sweet,  young  bride,  he  chafed  and  fumed  at  finding  that  the  neces 
sity  of  keeping  up  the  concealment,  which  he  had  so  needless 
ly  insisted  on,  precluded  him  from  the  possibility  of  enjoying  his 
new  possession,  as  he  would,  entirely,  and  at  all  hours. 

He  would  have  given  almost  his  right  hand  now  to  be  able 
to  declare  openly  that  she  was  his  own.  But  for  once  in  his 
life,  he  dared  not !  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  confess  to 
his  kind  father  the  cruel  breach  of  confidence,  the  foul  and 
causeless  deceit  of  which  he  had  been  guilty ;  and  he  began 
almost  to  look  forward  to  the  death  of  that  excellent  and  idoli 
zing  parent,  as  the  only  event  that  could  allow  him  to  call  his 
wife  his  own. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  wish  —  if  that  can  be  called  a  wish, 
which  he  dared  not  confess  to  his  own  guilty  heart,  was  ac 
complished. 

The  first  snows  had  not  fallen  yet,  when  the  old  cavalier  fell 
ill,  and  declined  so  rapidly  that  before  the  old  year  was  dead 
he  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.  As  he  had  lived,  so  he  died, 
a  just,  upright,  kindly,  honorable  man — at  peace  with  all  men, 
and  in  faith  with  his  God. 

His  last  words  were  entreaty  to  his  son  to  take  Theresa 
Allan  to  his  wife,  and  to  live  with  her  unambitiously,  unostenta 
tiously,  as  he  had  lived  himself,  and  was  about  to  die,  at  Wide- 
comb.  And  even  then,  though  he  promised  to  obey  his  fa 
ther's  bidding,  the  boy's  heart  was  not  softened,  nor  was  his  con 
science  touched  by  any  sense  of  the  wrong  he  had  done.  He 
promised,  and  as  the  good  man's  dying  eye  kindled  with  pleas 
ure,  he  smiled  on  him  with  an  honest  seeming  smile,  received 


HIS  FATHER'S  DEATH.  283 

his  parting  kiss,  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  stood  beside  the  dead, 
unrelenting,  unrepentant. 

He  was  the  lord  of  Widecomb ;  and  so  soon  as  the  corpse  by 
which  he  stood  should  be  composed  in  the  quiet  grave,  the 
world  should  know  him,  too,  as  the  lord  of  Theresa  Allan. 

And  so  he  swore  to  her,  when  he  stole  that  night,  as  he  had 
done  nightly  since  their  marriage,  to  her  chamber,  after  every 
light  was  extinguished,  and,  as  he  believed,  every  eye  closed 
in  sleep  ;  and  she,  fond  soul !  believed  him,  and  clasped  him  to 
her  heart,  and  sunk  into  sleep,  with  her  head  pillowed  on  his 
breast,  happier  than  she  had  been  since  she  had  once  —  for  the 
first,  last  time — deviated  from  the  paths  of  truth. 

But  he  who  has  once  taken  up  deceit  as  his  guide,  knows 
not  when  he  can  quit  it.  He  may,  indeed,  say  to  himself  "  Thus 
far  will  I  go,  and  no  farther,"  but  when  he  shall  have  once  at 
tained  the  proposed  limit,  and  shall  set  himself  to  work  to  re 
cover  that  straight  path  from  which  he  has  once  deviated,  for 
tunate  will  he  be,  indeed,  if  he  find  not  a  thousand  obstacles, 
which  it  shall  tax  his  utmost  energy,  his  utmost  ingenuity,  to 
surmount,  if  he  have  not  to  cry  out  in  despair  : — 

"  Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive." 

Jasper  St.  Aubyn  did  honestly  intend  to  do,  the  next  day, 
what  he  that  night  promised  ;  nor  did  he  doubt  that  he  could  do 
it,  and  so  do  it,  as  to  save  her  scatheless,  of  whom  he  had  not 
yet  grown  weary. 

But,  alas  !  of  so  delicate  a  texture  is  a  woman's  reputation, 
that  the  slightest  doubt,  the  smallest  shade  once  cast  upon  it, 
though  false  as  hell  itself,  it  shall  require  more  than  an  angel's 
tears  to  wash  away  the  stain.  All  cautiously  as  Jasper  had 
contrived  his  visits  to  the  chamber  of  his  wife,  all  guarded  as 
had  been  his  intercourse  with  her,  although  he  had  never 
dreamed  that  a  suspicion  had  been  awakened  in  a  single  mind 


284  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

of  the  existence  of  such  an  intercourse,  he  had  not  stolen 
thither  once,  nor  returned  once  to  his  own  solitary  couch,  but 
keen,  curious,  prying  eyes  had  followed  him. 

There  was  not  a  maid-servant  in  the  house  but  knew  Miss 
Theresa's  shame,  as  all  believed  it  to  be  ;  but  tittered  and  tri 
umphed  over  it  in  her  sleeves,  as  an  excuse,  or  at  least  a  pal 
liation  of  her  own  peccadilloes  ;  but  told  it,  in  confidence,  to 
her  own  lover,  Tom,  the  groom,  or  Dick,  the  falconer,  until  it 
was  the  common  gossip  of  the  kitchen  and  the  butlery,  how  the 
fair  and  innocent  Theresa  was  Master  Jasper's  mistress. 

But  they  nothing  dreamed  of  this  ;  and  both  fell  asleep  that 
night,  full  of  innocent  hopes  on  the  one  hand,  and  good  deter 
minations —  alas !  never  to  be  realized  —  on  the  other. 

The  morrow  came,  and  Sir  Miles  St.  Aubyn  was  consigned 
to  the  vault  where  slept  his  fathers  of  so  many  generations. 
Among  the  loud  and  sincere  lamentations  of  his  grateful  ten 
antry  and  dependants,  the  silent,  heartfelt  tears  of  Theresa,  and 
the  pale  but  constrained  sorrow  of  his  son,  he  was  committed, 
earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  to  his  long  last 
home,  by  the  son  of  the  aged  vicar,  who  had  already  been  in 
ducted  to  the  living,  which  his  father  had  held  so  many  years 
before  him. 

The  mournful  ceremonial  ended,  Jasper  was  musing  alone  in 
the  old  library,  considering  with  himself  how  he  might  best 
arrange  the  revelation,  which  he  proposed  to  make  that  very 
evening  to  his  household  of  his  hitherto  concealed  marriage 
with  Theresa,  when  suddenly  a  servant  entered  and  informed 
him  that  Peter  Verity,  the  sexton,  would  be  glad  to  speak  six 
words  with  his  honor,  if  it  would  not  be  too  much  trouble. 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Jasper,  eagerly,  for  he  foresaw,  as 
he  thought,  through  this  man  a  ready  mode  of  extricating  him 
self  from  the  embarrassment  of  the  disclosure,  "  admit  him  in 
stantly." 


THE    KNAVISH    SEXTON.  285 

The  fellow  entered ;  a  low,  miserable,  sneaking  scoundrel, 
even  from  his  appearance  ;  and  Jasper  felt  as  if  he  almost 
loathed  himself  that  he  had  ever  had  to  do  with  so  degraded  a 
specimen  of  mortality.  He  had  need  of  him,  however,  and  was 
compelled,  therefore,  much  against  his  will,  to  greet  him,  and 
speak  him  fairly. 

"  Ha,  Verity,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  I  should 
have  sent  for  you  in  the  morning,  if  you  had  not  come  up  to 
night.  You  have  managed  that  affair  for  me  right  well ;  and  I 
shall  not  forget  it,  I  assure  you.  Here  are  ten  guineas  for  you, 
as  an  earnest  now,  and  I  shall  continue  your  annuity,  though 
there  will  be  no  need  for  concealment  any  longer.  Still  I 
shall  want  your  assistance,  and  will  pay  you  for  it  liberally." 

"  I  thank  your  honor,  kindly,"  answered  the  fellow,  pocket 
ing  the  gold.  "  But  with  regard  to  the  annuity,  seeing  as  how 
what  I  've  done  for  your  honor  is  a  pretty  dangerous  job,  and 
one  as  I  fancy  might  touch  my  life,  I — " 

"  Touch  your  life !  why  what  the  devil  does  the  fellow 
mean !"  Jasper  interrupted  him,  starting  to  his  feet,  "  I  never 
asked  you — never  asked  any  man — to  do  aught  that  should 
affect  his  life." 

"  You  never  did  ask  me,  right  out  in  words,  that  is  a  fact, 
your  honor.  You  was  too  deep  for  that,  I'm  a  thinking !  But, 
Lord  bless  ye  !  I  understood  ye,  for  all,  as  well  as  if  you  had 
asked  me.  And  so,  be  sure,  I  went  and  did  it  straight.  I'd 
ha'  done  anything  to  serve  your  honor — that  I  would — and  I 
will  again,  that's  more." 

"  In  God's  name,  what  have  you  done,  then  ?"  exclaimed 
Jasper,  utterly  bewildered. 

"  Why,  seeing  as  your  honor  didn't  wish  to  have  your  mar 
riage  with  Miss  Theresa  known,  and  as  there  wasn't  no  way 
else  of  hiding  it,  when  the  old  parson  was  dead  and  gone,  and 
a  new  one  coming,  I  went  and  cut  the  record  of  it  out  of  the 


286  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN 

church-register,  and  I've  got  it  here,  safe  enough.  So  if  your 
honor  fancies  any  time  to  get  tired  like  of  miss,  why  you  can 
e'en  take  another  wife,  and  no  one  the  wiser.  There's  not  a 
soul  knows  aught  about  it  but  me,  and  black  Jem  Alderly ;  and 
we'll  never  say  a  word  about  it,  not  we.  Nor  it  wouldn't  mat 
ter  if  we  did,  for  that,  when  once  you've  got  this  here  paper. 
And  so  I  was  thinking,  if  your  honor  would  just  give  me  five 
hundred  guineas  down,  I  'd  hand  it  over,  and  you  could  just  put 
it  in  the  fire,  if  you  choosed,  and  no  one  the  wiser." 

Jasper  cast  his  eyes  up  to  heaven  in  despair,  and  wrung  his 
hands  bitterly. 

"  Great  God  !"  he  said,  "  I  would  give  five  thousand  if  you 
could  undo  this  that  you  have  done.  I  will  give  you  five 
thousand  if  you  will  replace  the  leaf  where  it  was,  undiscov 
ered." 

"  It  ain't  possible,"  replied  the  man.  "  The  new  vicar  he 
has  looked  over  all  the  register,  and  made  a  copy  of  it ;  and  he 
keeps  it  locked  up,  too,  under  his  own  key,  so  that,  for  my  life, 
I  could  not  get  it,  if  I  would.  And  I'd  be  found  out,  sure  as 
God — and  it's  hanging  by  the  law!  nothing  less.  But  what 
does  it  signify,,  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  your  honor  ?" 

"  When  my  poor  father  died,  all  cause  of  concealment  was 
at  an  end  ;  and  I  wished  this  very  day  to  acknowledge  my  mar 
riage  with  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn." 

The  man  uttered  a  low  expressive  whistle,  as  who  should 
say,  "  Here  is  a  change,  with  a  vengeance  !"  But  he  dared 
not  express  what  he  thought,  and  answered  humbly, 

"  Well,  your  honor,  I  don't  see  how  this  alters  it.  You  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  acknowledge  madam  as  your  wife,  and 
there's  no  one  will  think  of  asking  when  you  were  married,  nor 
hasn't  no  right  to  do  so  neither.  And  if  they  should,  you  can 
say  the  doctor  married  you  in  his  own  parlor,  and  I  can  swear 
to  that,  your  honor ;  if  you  want  me,  any  time  ;  and  so  '11  Jem 


THE    PRICE    OF    VILLANY.  287 

Alderly ;  and  this  writing,  that  I  '11  give  you,  will  prove  it  any 
time,  for  it's  in  the  doctor's  own  hand- writing,  and  signed  by 
the  witnesses.  So  just  you  give  me  the  five  hundred,  and  I'll 
give  you  the  register  ;  and  you  can  do  as  you  will  with  it,  your 
honor.  But  if  I  was  your  honor,  and  you  was  Peter  Verity, 
I'd  just  tell  the  servants,  as  madam  was  my  wife,  and  iriterduce 
her  as  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  like  ;  but  I'd  not  say  when  nor  where, 
nor  nothing  about  it ;  and  I  'd  just  keep  this  here  paper  snug  ;  as 
I  could  perduce  it,  if  I  wanted,  or  make  away  with  it,  if  I 
wanted  ;  it's  good  to  have  two  strings  to  your  bow  always." 

Jasper  had  listened  to  him  in  silence,  with  his  eyes  buried 
in  his  hands,  while  he  was  speaking,  and  as  he  ceased  he  made 
no  reply ;  but  remained  motionless  for  several  minutes. 

Then  he  raised  his  head,  and  answered  in  an  altered  and 
broken  voice. 

"  It  can  not  be  helped  now,  but  I  would  give  very  much  it 
had  been  otherwise."  He  opened  a  drawer,  as  he  spoke,  in  the 
escritoir  which  stood  before  him,  and  took  out  of  it  a  small  box 
bound  with  brass  and  secured  by  a  massive  lock,  the  key  of 
which  was  attached  to  a  chain  about  his  neck.  It  was  filled 
with  rouleux  of  gold,  from  which  he  counted  out  the  sum  spe 
cified,  and  pushed  the  gold  across  the  table  to  the  man,  saying, 
"  Count  it,  and  see  that  it  is  right,  and  give  me  the  paper." 

Then  satisfying  himself  that  it  was  the  very  register  in  ques 
tion,  he  folded  it  carefully,  and  put  it  away  in  the  box  whence 
he  had  withdrawn  the  gold  ;  while  the  villain  who  had  tempted 
him  stowed  away  the  price  of  his  rascality  in  a  leathern  bag 
which  he  had  brought  with  him  for  the  purpose,  well  assured 
that  his  claim  would  not  be  denied. 

That  done,  he  stood  erect  and  unblushing,  and  awaited  the 
further  orders  of  the  young  lord  of  Widecomb. 

"  Now,  Peter,"  said  he,  collecting  himself,  "mark  me.  You 
are  in  my  power !  and  if  I  ever  hear  that  you  have  spoken 


288  ASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

a  word  without  my  permission,  or  if  you  fail  to  speak  when  I 
command  you — I  will  hang  you." 

And  he  spoke  with  a  devilish  energy,  that  showed  how  seri 
ously  he  was  in  earnest.  "  Do  you  understand  that,  Master 
Peter  Verity  ?" 

"  I  do,  your  honor,"  answered  the  man,  with  a  doubtful  and 
somewhat  gloomy  smile  ;  "  but  there  is  no  need  of  such  threats 
with  me  ;  it  is  alike  my  interest  and  my  wish  to  serve  you,  as 
I  have  done  already." 

"  And  it  is  my  interest  and  my  wish  that  you  should  serve 
me,  as  differently  as  possible  from  the  way  in  which  you 
have  served  me  ;  or  served  yourself,  rather,  I  should  say,  sir 
rah." 

"  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon,  if  I  have  done  wrong.  I  meant 
to  do  good  service." 

"  Tush,  sirrah !  tush !  If  I  be  young,  I  am  neither  quite  a 
child,  nor  absolutely  a  fool.  You  meant  to  get  me  into  your 
power,  and  you  have  got  yourself  into  mine.  Now  listen  to 
me,  I  know  you  for  a  very  shrewd  rascal,  Peter  Verity,  and 
for  one  who  knows  right  well  what  to  say,  and  what  not  to 
say.  Now,  as  I  told  you,  I  am  about  this  very  evening  to 
make  known  my  marriage  with  the  lady  whom  you  saw  me 
wed.  You  will  be  asked,  doubtless,  a  thousand  questions  on 
the  subject  by  all  sorts  of  persons.  Now,  mark  me,  you  will 
answer  so  as  to  let  all  who  ask  understand  that  I  am  married, 
and  that  you  have  known  all  about  it  from  the  first ;  but  you 
will  do  this  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one  shall  be  able  to  assert 
that  you  have  asserted  anything ;  and  further,  that,  if  need 
should  be  hereafter,  you  may  be  able  to  deny  point  blank  your 
having  said  aught,  or  known  aught  on  the  subject.  I  hope  you 
will  remember  what  I  am  desiring  you  to  do  correctly,  Peter 
Verity ;  for,  of  a  truth,  if  you  make  the  slightest  blunder,  I  shall 
carry  this  document,  which  you  have  stolen  from  the  church- 


A    DISSEMBLING    HUSBAND.  289 

register,  to  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace,  and  make  my  dep 
osition  against  you." 

"  I  understand  perfectly,  your  honor,  and  will  do  your  bid 
ding  correctly,"  said  the  fellow,  not  a  little  embarrassed  at  find 
ing  how  much  his  position  had  altered,  since  he  entered  the 
library,  as  he  thought,  well  nigh  the  young  heir's  master. 

So  you  shall  do  well,"  replied  Jasper.  "  Now  get  you  gone. 
Let  them  give  you  some  ale  in  the  buttery,  but  when  I  send 
word  to  have  the  people  collected  in  the  great  hall,  make  your 
self  scarce.  It  is  not  desirable  that  you  should  be  there  when 
I  address  them  ;"  and  lighting  a  hand-lamp  as  he  ceased  speak 
ing,  for  it  had  grown  dark  already  during  the  conversation,  he 
turned  his  back  on  the  discomfited  sexton,  and  went  up  by  a 
private  staircase  to  what  was  called  the  ladies'  withdrawing- 
room,  an  apartment  which,  having  been  shut  up  since  the  death 
of  his  own  mother,  had  bem  reopened  on  Theresa's  joining  the 
family. 

"  The  sexton  of  the  church  has  been  with  you,  Jasper,"  she 
said,  eagerly,  as  her  husband  entered  the  room  ;  "  what  should 
have  brought  him  hither  ?" 

"  He  was  here,  you  know,  dearest,  at  the  sad  ceremonial ; 
and  I  had  desired  him  to  bring  up  a  copy  of  the  record  of  our 
marriage.  He  wished  to  deliver  it  to  me  in  person." 

"  How  good  of  you,  dear  Jasper,  and  how  thoughtful,"  she 
replied,  casting  her  fair,  white  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissing 
his  forehead  tenderly,  "  that  you  may  show  it  to  the  people,  and 
prove  to  them  that  I  am  indeed  your  wife." 

"  Show  it  to  the  people  !  Prove  that  you  are  my  wife  !"  he 
answered  impetuously,  and  with  indignation  in  his  every  tone. 
"  I  should  like  to  see  the  person  ask  me  to  show  it,  or  doubt 
that  you  are  my  wife.  No,  indeed,  dear  Theresa,  your  very 
thought  shows  how  young  you  are,  and  ignorant  of  the  world. 
To  do  what  you  suggest,  would  but  create  the  doubt,  not  de- 

25 


290  JASPER    ST.    AUBTX. 

stroy  it.  No,  when  they  have  done  supper,  I  shall  cause  the 
whole  household  to  be  collected  in  the  great  stone-hall ;  and 
when  they  are  there,  I  shall  merely  lead  you  in  upon  my  arm, 
tell  them  we  have  been  married  in  private  these  three  months 
past,  and  desire  them  to  respect  you  as  my  dear  wife,  and  their 
honored  mistress.  That,  and  your  being  introduced  to  all 
friends  and  visiters  as  Mistress  St.  Aubyn,  is  all  that  can  be 
needed  ;  and,  in  cases  such  as  ours,  believe  me,  the  less  eclat 
given  to  the  circumstances,  the  better  it  will  be  for  all  parties. 
And  do  not,  I  pray  you,  dearest,  suffer  the  servant-girls  to  ask 
you  any  questions  on  the  subject,  or  answer  them  if  they  do. 
But  inform  me  of  it  forthwith." 

"  They  would  not  dream  of  doing  so,  Jasper,"  she  replied 
gently.  "  And  you  are  quite  right,  I  am  certain,  and  I  will  do 
all  that  you  wish.  Oh !  I  am  so  happy !  so  immeasurably 
happy,  Jasper,  even  when  I  should  be  mournful  at  your  good 
father's  death,  who  was  so  kind  to  me  ;  but  I  can  not  —  I  can 
not — this  joy  completely  overwhelms  me.  I  am  too,  too 
happy." 

"  Wherefore,  so  wondrous  happy  all  on  a  sudden,  sweet 
one  ?"  asked  the  boy,  with  a  playful  smile,  laying  his  hand,  as 
he  spoke,  affectionately  on  her  soft,  rounded  shoulder. 

"  That  I  need  fear  no  longer  to  let  the  whole  world  know 
how  dearly,  how  devotedly  I  love  my  husband." 

And  she  raised  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  to  his,  running  over 
with  tears  of  tenderness  and  joy  ;  and  her  sweet  lips  half  apart, 
so  perfumed  and  so  rosy,  and  radiant  with  so  bright  a  smile,  as 
might  have  tempted  the  sternest  anchorite  to  bend  over  her  as 
Jasper  did,  and  press  them  with  a  long  kiss  of  pure  affection. 

"  Now  I  will  leave  you,  dearest,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  for  a  lit 
tle  space,  while  I  see  that  things  are  arranged  for  this  great 
ceremonial.  I  will  warn  old  Geoffrey  first  of  what  I  am  about 
to  say  to  them,  that  they  may  not  overwhelm  us  by  their  won- 


A    TRYING    ORDEAL.  291 

der  at  the  telling ;  and  do  you,  when  you  hear  the  great  bell 
ring  to  assemble  them,  put  on  your  prettiest  smile,  arid  your 
most  courageous  look,  for  then  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  fetch  you." 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart,  and  an  almost  sickening  sense 
of  anxiety,  that  poor  Theresa  awaited  the  moment  which  was 
to  install  her  in  the  house  of  her  husband  as  its  lawful  lady. 
She  felt  the  awkwardness,  the  difficulty  of  her  situation,  al 
though  she  was  far  indeed  from  suspecting  all  the  causes  which 
in  reality  existed  to  justify  her  embarrassment  and  timidity. 

She  had  not  long,  however,  to  indulge  in  such  fancies,  and 
perhaps  it  was  well  that  she  had  not ;  for  her  timidity  seemed 
to  grow  on  her  apace,  and  she  began  to  think  that  courage 
would  fail  her  to  undergo  the  ordeal  of  eyes  to  which  she 
should  be  exposed. 

But  at  this  moment,  when  she  was  giving  way  to  her  bash- 
fulness,  when  her  terrors  were  gaining  complete  empire  over 
her,  the  great  bell  began  to  ring.  Slow  and  measured  the  first 
six  or  seven  clanging  strokes  fell  upon  her  ear,  resembling  more 
the  minute-tolling  of  a  death-bell,  than  the  gay  peal  that  gives 
note  of  festive  tidings  and  rejoicing.  But  almost  as  soon  as 
this  thought  occurred  to  her,  it  seemed  that  the  ringer,  whoever 
he  was,  had  conceived  the  same  idea,  for  the  cadence  of  the 
bell-ringing  was  changed  suddenly,  and  a  quick,  merry  chime 
succeeded  to  the  first  solemn  clangor. 

At  the  same  instant  the  door  of  the  withdrawing-room  was 
thrown  open,  and  her  young  husband  entered  hastily,  and  catch 
ing  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  lips  affectionately.  "  Come, 
dearest  girl,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  her  arm  through  his  own, 
"  come,  it  will  all  be  over  in  five  minutes,  and  then  everything 
will  go  on  as  usual." 

And  without  waiting  a  reply,  he  led  her  down  the  great  stair 
case  into  the  stone-hall,  wherein  all  the  servants  of  the  house 
hold,  and  many  of  the  tenantry  and  neighboring  yeornen,  who 


292  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

had  not  yet  dispersed  after  the  funeral,  were  assembled  in  a 
surprised  and  admiring  although  silent  crowd. 

The  old  steward,  to  whom  Jasper  had  communicated  his 
purpose,  had  already  informed  them  of  the  object  of  their  con 
vocation,  and  great  was  their  wonder,  though  as  yet  they  had 
little  time  to  comment  on  it,  or  communicate  their  thoughts  and 
suspicions  of  the  news. 

And  now  they  were  all  collected,  quiet,  indeed,  and  respect 
ful —  for  such  was  the  habit  of  the  times — but  all  eagerness  to 
hear  what  the  young  master  had  to  say,  and,  to  speak  truly, 
little  impressed  by  the  informality  of  the  affair,  and  little 
pleased  that  one  whom  they  regarded  as  little  higher  than 
themselves,  should  be  elevated  to  a  rank  and  position  so  com 
manding. 

Gathering  even  more  than  his  wonted  share  of  dignity  from 
the  solemnity  of  the  moment,  and  bearing  himself  even  more 
haughtily  than  his  wont,  from  a  sort  of  an  inward  consciousness 
that  he  was  in  some  sort  descending  from  his  proper  sphere, 
and  lowering  his  wife  by  doing  that  which  was  yet  necessary 
to  establish  her  fair  fame,  the  young  man  came  down  the  broad 
oaken-steps,  with  a  slow,  proud,  firm  step,  his  athletic  although 
slender  frame,  seeming  to  expand  with  the  elevation  of  his  ex 
cited  feelings.  He  carried  his  fine  head,  with  the  brows  a  lit 
tle  bent,  and  his  eyes,  glancing  like  stars  of  fire,  as  they  ran 
over  every  countenance  that  met  his  gaze,  seeking,  as  it  seemed, 
to  find  an  expression  which  should  challenge  his  will  or  under 
rate  his  choice. 

She  clung  to  his  arm,  not  timidly,  although  it  was  evident 
that  she  felt  the  need  of  his  protection,  and,  although  there  was 
an  air  of  bashfulness  and  a  slight  tremor  visible  in  her  bearing, 
they  were  mixed  with  a  sort  of  gentle  pride,  the  pride  of  con 
scious  rectitude  and  purity,  and  she  did  not  cast  down  her  beau 
tiful  blue  eyes,  nor  avoid  the  glances  which  were  cast  on  her 


THE    MARRIAGE    PROCLAIMED.  293 

from  all  sides,  by  some  desiring  to  read  her  secret,  by  some 
wishing  to  prejudge  her  character,  but  looked  around  her  tran 
quilly,  with  a  sweet,  lady-like  self-possession,  that  won  many 
hearts  to  her  cause,  which,  before  her  coming,  had  been  pre 
pared  to  think  of  her  unkindly. 

Finding  no  eye  in  the  circle  that  met  his  own  with  an  inquis 
itive,  much  less  an  insolent  glance,  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  paused, 
and  addressed  his  people  with  a  subdued  and  almost  melan 
choly  smile,,  although  his  voice  was  clear  and  sonorous. 

"  This  a  sad  occasion,"  he  said,  "  on  which  it  first  falls  to  my 
lot,  my  people,  to  address  you  here,  as  the  master  of  a  few,  the 
landlord  of  many,  and,  as  I  hope  to  prove  myself,  the  friend  of 
all.  To  fill  the  plactJ  of  him,  who  has  gone  from  us,  and  whom 
you  all  knew  so  well,  and  had  so  much  cause  to  love,  I  never 
can  aspire  ;  but  it  is  my  earnest  hope  and  desire  to  live  and 
die  among  you  as  he  did  ;  and  if  I  fail  to  gain  and  hold  fast 
your  affections,  as  he  did,  it  shall  not  be  for  want  of  endeavoring 
to  deserve  them.  But  my  object  in  calling  you  together,  my 
friends,  this  evening,  was  not  merely  to  say  this  to  you,  or  to 
promise  you  my  friendship  and  protection,  but  rather  to  do  a 
duty,  which  must  not  be  deferred  any  longer,  for  my  own  sake, 
and  for  that  of  one  far  dearer  than  myself."  Here  he  paused, 
and  pressing  the  little  white  hand  which  reposed  on  his  arm  so 
gently,  smiled  in  the  face  of  his  young  wife,  as  he  moved  her 
a  little  forward  into  the  centre  of  the  circle.  "  I  mean,  to  pre 
sent  to  you  all,  Mistress  St.  Aubyn,  my  beloved  wife,  and  your 
honored  mistress  !  Some  of  you  have  been  aware  of  this  for 
some  time  already  ;  but  to  most  of  you  it  is  doubtless  a  surprise. 
Be  it  so.  Family  reasons  required  that  our  marriage  should  be 
kept  secret  for  a  while.  Those  reasons  are  now  at  an  end,  and 
I  am  as  proud  to  acknowledge  this  dear  lady  as  my  wife,  and 
to  claim  all  your  homage  and  affection  for  her,  both  on  my  ac 
count,  and  on  account  of  her  own  virtues,  as  1  doubt  not  you 

25* 


294  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

will  be  proud  and  happy  to  have  so  excellent  and  beautiful  a 
lady  to  whom  to  look  up  as  your  mistress." 

He  ceased,  and  three  full  rounds  of  cheering  responded  to 
his  manly  speech.  The  circle  broke  up,  and  crowded  around 
the  young  pair,  and  many  of  the  elder  tenants,  white-headed 
men  and  women,  came  up  and  craved  permission  to  shake  hands 
with  the  beautiful  young  lady,  and  blessed  her  with  tears  in 
their  eyes,  and  wished  her  long  life  and  happiness  here  and 
hereafter. 

But  among  the  servants  of  the  household,  there  was  not,  by 
any  means,  the  same  feeling  manifested.  The  old  steward,  in 
deed,  who  had  grown  up  a  contemporary  of  Jasper's  father,  and 
the  scarcely  less  aged  housekeeper,  did,  indeed,  show  some 
feeling,  and  were  probably  sincere  as  they  offered  their  greet 
ings,  and  promised  their  humble  services.  But  among  the 
maid-servants  there  passed  many  a  meaning  wink,  and  half-light, 
half-sneering  titter  ;  and  two  or  three  of  the  younger  men  nudged 
one  another  with  their  elbows,  and  interchanged  thoughts  with 
what  they  considered  a  vastly  knowing  grin.  No  remarks 
were  made,  however,  nor  did  any  intimation  of  doubt  or  dis 
trust  reach  the  eyes  or  ears  of  the  young  couple  —  all  appeared 
to  be  truthful  mirth  and  honest  congratulation. 

Then  having  ordered  supper  to  be  prepared  for  all  present, 
and  liquor  to  be  served  out,  both  ale  and  wine,  of  a  better  quality 
than  usual,  that  the  company  might  drink  the  health  of  their 
young  mistress,  well  pleased  that  the  embarrassing  scene  was 
at  an  end,  Jasper  led  Theresa  up  to  her  own  room,  palpitating 
with  the  excitement  of  the  scene,  and  agitated  even  by  the  ex 
cess  .of  her  own  happiness. 

But  as  the  crowd  was  passing  out  of  the  hall  into  the  dark 
passages  which  led  to  the  buttery  and  kitchen,  one  of  the  girls 
of  the  house,  a  finely-shaped,  buxom,  red-lipped,  hazel-eyed 
lass,  with  a  very  roguish  expression,  hung  back  behind  the 


SERVANTS'  GOSSIP  :  WIFE  OR  MISTRESS  ?  295 

other  maids,  till  she  was  joined  by  the  under-falconer,  a  strap 
ping  fellow  in  a  green  jerkin,  with  buckskin  belt  and  leggins. 

"  Ha  !  Bess,  is  that  you  ?"  he  said,  passing  his  arm  round 
waist,  "thou'rt  a  good  lass,  to  tarry  for  me." 

And  drawing  her,  nothing  reluctant,  aside  from  the  crowd 
into  a  dark  corner,  he  kissed  her  a  dozen  times  in  succession, 
a  proceeding  which  she  did  not  appear,  by  any  means  to  resent, 
the  "ha'  done  nows  !"  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding,  which 
she  seemed  to  consider  it  necessary  to  deliver,  and  which  her 
lover,  probably  correctly,  understood  as  meaning,  "  Pray  go  on, 
if  you  please." 

This  pleasant  interlude  completed,  "  Well,  Bess,"  said  the 
swain,  "and  what  think'st  thou  of  the  new  mistress  —  of  the 
young  master's  wife  ?  She 's  a  rare  bit  now,  hant  she  ?" 

"  Lor,  Jem  !"  returned  the  girl,  laughing,  "  she  hant  no  more 
his  wife  than  I  be  yourn,  I  tell  you." 

"•  Why,  what  be  she,  then,  Bess  ?"  said  the  fellow,  gaping  in 
stupid  wonderment,  "  thou  didst  hear  what  Master  Jasper  said." 

"  Why,  she  be  his  sweetheart.  Just  what  we  be,  Jem,"  said 
the  unblushing  girl,  "  what  the  quality  folks  calls  his  *  miss.' 
Why,  Jem,  he's  slept  in  her  room  every  night  since  she  came 
here.  Re's  only  said  this  here,  about  her  being  his  wife,  to 
save  her  character." 

"  No  blame  to  him  for  that  Bess,  if  it  be  so.  But  if  you're 
wise,  lass,  you'll  keep  this  to  yourself.  She's  a  beauty,  any 
ways  ;  and  I  don't  fault  him,  if  she  be  his  wife,  or  his  '  miss,' 
either,  for  that  matter." 

"  Lor !"  replied  the  girl.  "  I  shan't  go  to  say  nothing,  I'm 
sure.  I've  got  a  good  place,  and  I  mean  to  keep  it,  too.  It's 
nauo-ht  to  me  how  they  amuse  themselves,  so  they  don't  med 
dle  with  my  sweet-hearting.  But  do  you  think  her  so  pretty, 
Jem  ?  She's  a  poor  slight  little  slip  of  a  thing,  seems  to  me." 

"  She  beant  such  an  armful  as  thou,  Bess,  that's  a  fact,"  an- 


296  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

swered  the  fellow,  making  a  dash  at  her,  which  she  avoided, 
and  took  to  her  heels,  looking  back,  however,  over  her  shoul 
ders,  and  beckoning  him  to  follow. 

Such  were  not  the  only  comments  of  the  kind  which  passed 
that  evening  ;  and  although,  fortunately  for  Jasper's  and  The 
resa's  peace  of  mind,  they  never  dreamed  of  what  was  going  on 
below,  it  was  in  fact  generally  understood  among  the  younger 
men  and  women,  both  of  those  within  and  without  the  house, 
that  Jasper's  declaration  was  a  mere  stratagem,  resorted  to  in 
order  to  procure  more  respect  and  consideration  for  his  concu 
bine.  .  And,  although  she  was  everywhere  treated  and  ad 
dressed  as  St.  Aubyn's  wife,  every  succeeding  day  and  hour 
she  was  more  generally  regarded  as  his  victim,  and  his  mis 
tress. 

Such  is  the  consequence  of  a  single  lapse  from  rectitude  and 
truth. 

Alas  for  Theresa !  her  doom,  though  she  knew  it  not,  was 
but  too  surely  sealed  for  ever. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  exceeding  gentleness  and  humility 
of  the  unhappy  girl,  it  is  probable  that  she  would  have  been 
very  shortly  made  acquainted,  one  way  or  other,  with  the  opin 
ion  which  was  entertained  concerning  her,  in  her  own  house, 
and  in  the  neighborhood.  But  the  winning  affability  of  her 
manners,  the  total  absence  of  all  arrogance  or  self-elevation  in 
her  demeanor  toward  her  inferiors  in  station,  her  respect  every 
where  manifested  to  old  age  and  virtue,  her  kindness  to  the 
poor  and  the  sick,  her  considerate  good-nature  to  her  servants, 
and  above  all  her  liberal  and  unostentatious  charities,  rendered 
it  impossible  that  any  could  be  so  cruel  as  to  offer  her  rudeness 
or  indignity,  on  what  was  at  most  mere  suspicion.  Added  to 
this,  the  fierce  impetuosity  of  Jasper,  when  crossed  by  anything, 
or  opposed  in  his  will,  and  the  certainty  that  he  would  stop  at 
nothing  to  avenge  any  affront  aimed  at  Theresa,  so  long  as  he 


FIRST    MONTHS    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  297 

chose  to  style  her  his  wife,  deterred  not  only  the  household  and 
village  gossips,  but  even  that  more  odious  class,  the  hypocrit 
ical,  puritanic,  self-constituted  judges  of  society,  and  punishers 
of  what  they  choose  to  deem  immorality,  from  following  out  the 
bent  of  their  mischievous  or  malicious  tempers. 

In  the  meantime,  month  after  month  had  passed  away. 
Winter  had  melted  into  the  promises  of  spring ;  and  the  gay 
flowers  of  summer  had  ripened  into  the  fruits  of  luxuriant  au 
tumn.  A  full  year  had  run  its  magic  round  since  Theresa  gave 
herself  up  to  Jasper,  for  better  for  worse,  till  death  should  them 
part. 

The  slender,  joyous  maiden  had  expanded  into  the  full-blown, 
thoughtful,  lovely  woman,  who  was  now  watching  at  the  oriel 
window,  alone,  at  sunset  for  the  return  of  her  young  husband. 

Alone,  ay,  alone  !  For  no  child  had  been  born  to  bless  their 
union,  and  to  draw  yet  closer  the  indissoluble  bonds  which  man 
may  not  put  asunder.  Alone,  ay,  alone  !  as  all  her  days  were 
now  spent,  and  some,  alas  !  of  her  nights  also.  For  the  first 
months  of  her  wedded  life,  when  the  pain  of  concealment  had 
been  once  removed,  Theresa  was  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 
The  love,  the  passion,  the  affection  of  her  boy-bridegroom 
seemed  to  increase  daily.  To  sit  by  her  side,  during  the  snowy 
days  of  winter,  to  listen  to  her  lute  struck  by  the  master-hand 
of  the  untaught  improvisatrice,  to  sing  with  her  the  grand  old 
ballads  which  she  loved,  to  muse  with  her  over  the  tomes  of 
romance,  the  natural  vein  of  which  was  not  then  extinguished 
in  the  English  heart,  to  cull  the  gems  of  the  rare  dramatists 
and  mighty  bards  of  the  era,  which  was  then  but  expiring  ;  and, 
when  the  early  days  of  spring-time  gave  token  of  their  coming, 
in  the  swelling  flowerbud  and  bursting  leaf,  to  wander  with  her 
through  the  park,  through  the  chase,  to  ride  with  her  over  the 
heathery  moorland  hills,  and  explore  the  wild  recesses  of  the 
forest,  to  have  her  near  him  in  his  field-sports,  to  show  her 


298  JASPER    ST.    ATTBYN. 

how  he  struck  the  silvery  salmon,  or  roused  the  otter  from  his 
sedgy  lair — these  seemed  to  be  the  only  joys  the  boy  coveted 
— her  company  his  chiefest  pleasure,  the  undisturbed  posses 
sion  of  her  charms  his  crowning  bliss. 

But  passion  is  proverbially  short-lived  ;  and  the  most  so  with 
those  who,  like  Jasper,  have  no  solidity  of  character,  no  sta 
bility  of  feeling,  no  fixed  principles,  whereon  to  fall  back  for 
support.  One  of  the  great  defects  of  Jasper's  nature  was  a  to 
tal  lack  of  reverence  for  anything  divine  or  human — he  had 
loved  many  things,  he  never  had  respected  one.  Accustomed 
from  his  earliest  boyhood  to  see  everything  yield  to  his  will,  to 
measure  the  value  of  everything  by  the  present  pleasure  it 
afforded  him,  he  expected  to  receive  all  things,  yet  to  give 
nothing.  He  was  in  fact  a  very  pattern  of  pure  selfishness, 
though  no  one  would  have  been  so  much  amazed  as  he  had  he 
heard  himself  so  named. 

Time  passed,  and  he  grew  weary,  even  of  the  very  excess 
of  his  happiness  —  even  of  the  amiability,  the  sweetness,  the 
ever-yielding  gentleness  of  his  Theresa.  That  she  should  so 
long  have  charmed  one  so  rash  and  reckless  was  the  real  won 
der,  not  that  she  should  now  have  lost  the  power  of  charming 
him. 

Nevertheless  so  it  was  ;  the  mind  of  Jasper  was  not  so  con 
stituted  as  to  rest  very  long  content  with  anything,  least  of  all 
with  tranquillity  — 

"  For  quiet  to  hot  bosoms  is  a  hell !" 

and  his,  surely,  was  of  the  hottest.  He  began  as  of  old  to  long 
for  excitement ;  and  even  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  to  which 
he  was  still  devoted,  began  to  prove  insufficient  to  gratify  his 
wild  and  eager  spirit.  Day  after  day,  Theresa  saw  less  of 
him,  and  ere  long  knew  not  how  or  where  many  of  his  days 
were  spent.  Confidence,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  there 
never  had  been  between  them  ;  respect  or  esteem,  founded  upon 


THE    NEGLECTED"  WIFE.  299 

her  real  virtues  and  rare  excellences,  he  had  never  felt  —  there 
fore,  when  the  heat  and  fierceness  of  passion  died  out,  as  it 
were,  by  the  consumption  of  its  own  fuel,  when  her  personal 
charms  palled  on  him  by  possession,  when  her  intellectual  en 
dowments  wearied  him,  because  they  were  in  truth  far  beyond 
the  range  of  his  comprehension,  and  therefore  out  of  the  pale 
of  his  sympathies,  he  had  nothing  left  whereon  to  build  affec 
tion — thus  passion  once  dead  in  his  heart,  all  was  gone  at  once 
which  had  bound  him  to  Theresa. 

He  neglected  her,  he  left  her  alone  —  alone,  without  a  com 
panion,  a  friend,  in  the  wide  world.  Still  she  complained  not, 
wept  not,  above  all  upbraided  not.  She  sought  to  occupy  her 
self,  to  amuse  her  solitude  with  her  books,  her  music,  her  wild 
flights  into  the  world  of  fancy.  And  when  he  did  come  home 
from  his  fierce,  frantic  gallops  across  the  country  with  the  worst 
and  wildest  of  the  young  yeomanry,  or  from  his  disgraceful  or 
gies  with  the  half-gentry  of  the  nearest  market-town,  she  re 
ceived  him  ever  with  kindness,  gentleness,  and  love. 

She  never  let  him  know  that  she  wept  in  silence  ;  never 
allowed  him  to  see  that  she  noticed  his  altered  manner  ;  but, 
smiled  on  him,  and  sung  to  him,  and  fondled  him,  as  if  he  had 
been  to  her  —  and  was  he  not  so?  —  all  that  she  had  on  earth. 
And  he,  such  is  the  spirit  of  the  selfish  and  the  reckless  of  our 
sex,  almost  began  to  hate  her,  for  the  very  meekness  and  affec 
tion  with  which  she  submitted  to  his  unkindness. 

He  felt  that  her  unchanged,  unreproaching  love  was  the 
keenest  reproach  to  his  altered  manner,  to  his  neglectful  cold 
ness.  He  felt  that  he  could  better  have  endured  the  bitterest 
blame,  the  most  agonized  remonstrance,  the  tears  of  the  veriest 
Niobe,  than  meet  the  ever-welcoming  smile  of  those  rosy  lips, 
the  ever-loving  glance  of  those  soft  blue  eyes. 

Perhaps  had  she  possessed  more  of  what  such  men  as  he 
call  spirit,  had  the  vein  of  her  genius  led  to  outbursts  of  vehe- 


300  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

merit,  unfeminine,  Italian  passion,  the  flashing  eye,  the  curling 
lip,  the  face  pallid  with  rage,  the  tongue  fluent  with  the  torrent 
eloquence  of  indignation,  he  might  have  found  in  them  some 
thing  to  rouse  his  dormant  passions  from  the  lethargy  which  had 
overcome  them,  something  to  stimulate  and  excite  him  into  re 
newed  desire. 

But  as  well  might  you  expect  from  the  lily  of  the  valley  the 
blushes  and  the  thorns  of  the  rose,  from  the  turtle-dove  the 
fury  and  the  flight  of  the  jer-falcon,  as  aught  from  Theresa  St. 
Aubyn,  but  the  patience,  the  purity,  the  quiet,  and  the  love  of  a 
pure-minded,  virtuous  woman. 

But  she  was  wretched — most  wretched — because  hopeless. 
She  had  prayed  for  a  child,  with  all  the  yearning  eagerness  of 
disappointed,  craving  womanhood  —  a  child  that  should  smile 
in  her  face,  and  love  her  for  herself,  being  of  herself,  and  her 
own  —  a  child  that  should  perhaps  win  back  to  her  the  lost 
affections  of  her  lord.  But  in  vain. 

And  still  she  loved  him,  nay,  adored  him,  as  of  old.  Never 
did  she  see  his  stately  form,  sitting  his  horse  with  habitual 
grace,  approaching  listlessly  and  slowly  the  home  which  no 
longer  had  a  single  attraction  to  his  jaded  and  exhausted  heart, 
but  her  whole  frame  was  shaken  by  a  sharp,  nervous  tremor, 
but  a  mist  overspread  her  swimming  eyes,  but  a  dull  ringing 
filled  her  ears,  her  heart  throbbed  and  palpitated,  until  she 
thought  it  would  burst  forth  from  her  bosom. 

She  ever  hoped  that  the  cold  spell  might  pass  from  him,  ever 
believed,  ever  trusted,  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  would 
again  love  her  as  of  old,  again  seek  her  society,  and  take  pleas 
ure  in  her  conversation ;  again  let  her  nestle  in  his  bosom,  and 
look  up  into  his  answering  eyes,  by  the  quiet  fireside  in  win 
ter  evenings.  Alas  !  she  still  dreamed  of  these  things  —  even 
although  her  reason  told  her  that  they  were  hopeless-1— even 
after  he  had  again  changed  his  mood  from  sullen  coldness  to 


THE    WHIRL     OF    POLITICS.  301 

harsh,  irritable  anger,  to  vehement,  impetuous,  fiery  wrath, 
causeless  as  the  wolf's  against  the  lamb,  and  therefore  the  more 
deadly  and  unsparing. 

Politics  had  run  high  in  the  land  of  late,  and  everywhere 
parties  were  forming.  Since  the  battle  of  Sedgemoor,  and  the 
merciless  cruelty  with  which  the  royal  judges  had  crushed  out 
the  life  of  that  abortive  insurrection,  and  drowned  its  ashes  in 
floods  of  innocent  gore,  the  rage  of  factions  had  waxed  wilder 
in  the  country  than  they  had  done  since  the  reign  of  the  first 
Charles,  the  second  English  king  of  that  unhappy  race,  the 
last  of  which  now  filled  the  painful  seat  of  royalty. 

Yet  all  was  hushed  as  yet  and  quiet,  as  the  calm  which  pre 
cedes  the  bursting  of  a  thunder-cloud.  Secluded  as  Widecornb 
manor  was,  and  far  divided  from  the  seats  of  the  other  gentry 
of  Devonshire  by  tracts  of  moor  and  forest,  and  little  intercourse 
as  Jasper  had  held  hitherto  with  his  equals  in  rank  and  birth 
—  limited  as  that  intercourse  had  been  to  a  few  visits  of  form, 
and  a  few  annual  banquets — the  stir  of  the  political  world 
reached  even  the  remote  House  in  the  Woods. 

The  mad  whirl  of  politics  was  precisely  the  thing  to  capti 
vate  a  mind  such  as  Jasper's  ;  and  the  instant  the  subject  was 
broached  to  him,  by  some  of  the  more  leading  youths  of  the 
county,  he  plunged  headlong  into  its  deepest  vortices,  and  was 
soon  steeped  to  the  lips  in  conspiracy. 

Events  rendered  it  necessary  that  he  should  visit  the  metrop 
olis,  and  twice  during  the  autumn  he  had  already  visited  it — 
alone.  And  twice  he  had  returned  to  his  beautiful  young  wife, 
who  hailed  his  coming  as  a  heathen  priestess  would  have 
greeted  the  advent  of  her  god,  more  alienated,  colder,  and  more 
careless  than  before. 

Since  he  had  last  returned,  the  coldness  was  converted  into 
cruelty,  active,  malicious,  fiendish  cruelty.  Hard  words,  inces 
sant  taunts,  curses : — nay,  blows!  Yet  still,  faithful  to  the  end 

26 


302  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

and  fond,  she  still  loved  him.  Still  would  have  laid  down  the 
dregs  of  the  life  which  had  been  so  happy  till  she  knew  him, 
and  which  he  had  made  so  wretched,  to  win  one  of  his  old 
fond  smiles,  one  of  his  once  caressing  tones,  one  of  his  heart 
felt  kisses. 

Alas  !  alas  !  Theresa  !     Too  late,  it  was  all  too  late  ! 

He  had  learned,  for  the  first  time,  in  London,  the  value  of 
his  rank,  his  wealth,  his  position.  He  had  been  flattered  by 
men  of  lordly  birth,  feted  and  fondled  by  the  fairest  and  noblest 
ladies  of  the  land.  He  had  learned  to  be  ambitious — he  had 
begun  to  thirst  for  social  eminence,  for  political  ascendency, 
for  place,  power,  dominion.  His  talents  had  created  a  favora 
ble  impression  in  high  quarters — his  enthusiasm  and  daring 
rashness  had  made  an  effect — he  was  already  a  marked  man 
among  the  conspirators,  who  were  aiming  to  pull  down  the 
sovereignty  of  the  Stuarts.  Hints  had  been  even  thrown  out 
to  him,  of  the  possibility  of  allying  himself  to  interests  the  most 
important,  through  the  beautiful  and  gorgeous  daughter  of  one 
of  the  oldest  of  the  peers  of  England.  The  hint  had  been 
thrown  out,  moreover,  by  a  young  gentleman  of  his  own  county 
— by  one  who  had  seen  Theresa.  And  when  he  started  and 
expressed  his  wonder,  and  alluded  tremulously  to  his  wife,  he 
had  been  answered  by  a  smile  of  intelligence,  coupled  with  an 
assurance  that  every  one  understood  all  about  Theresa  Allan ; 
and  that  surely  he  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  sacrifice  such 
prospects  for  a  little  village  paramour.  "  The  story  of  the  con 
cealed  wedding  took  in  nobody,  my  lad,"  the  speaker  added, 
"  except  those,  like  myself,  who  chose  to  believe  anything  you 
chose  to  assert.  Think  of  it,  mon  cher ;  and,  believe  me,  that 
liaison  will  be  no  hinderance." 

And  Jasper  had  thought  of  it.  The  thought  had  never  been 
for  one  moment,  absent  from  his  mind,  sleeping  or  waking, 
since  it  first  found  admission  to  the  busy  chambers  of  his  brain. 


HELLISH    PLOTS.  303 

From  that  unfortunate  day,  his  life  had  been  but  one  series  of 
plots  and  schemes,  all  base,  atrocious,  horrible  —  some  even 
murderous. 

Since  that  day  his  cruelty  had  not  been  casual ;  it  had  a 
meaning,  and  a  method,  both  worthy  of  the  arch  fiend's  devising. 

He  sought  first  deliberately  to  break  her  heart,  to  kill  her 
without  violence,  by  the  action  of  her  own  outraged  affections 
—  and  then,  when  that  failed,  or  rather  when  he  saw  that  the 
process  must  needs  be  too  slow  to  meet  his  accursed  views,  he 
aimed  at  driving  her  to  commit  suicide — thus  slaying,  should 
he  succeed  in  his  hellish  scheme,  body  and  soul  together  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  sworn  before  God's  holy  altar,  with  the 
most  solemn  adjuration,  to  love,  comfort,  honor,  and  keep  in 
sickness  and  in  health — the  woman  whose  whole  heart  and 
soul  were  his  absolute  possession ;  who  had  never  formed  a 
wish,  or  entertained  a  thought,  but  to  love  him  and  to  make  him 
happy.  And  this — this  was  her  reward.  Could  she,  indeed, 
have  fully  conceived  the  extent  of  the  feelings  which  he  now 
entertained  toward  her,  could  she  have  believed  that  he  really 
was  desirous  of  her  death,  was  actually  plotting  how  he  might 
bring  it  about,  without  dipping  his  hand  in  her  blood,  or  calling 
*down  the  guilt  of  downright  murder  on  his  soul,  I  believe  he 
would  have  been  spared  all  further  wickedness. 

To  have  known  that  he  felt  toward  her  not  merely  casual  irri 
tation,  that  his  conduct  was  not  the  effect  of  a  bad  disposition,  or 
of  an  evil  temper  only,  but  that  determined  hatred  had  supplant 
ed  the  last  spark  of  love  in  his  soul,  and  that  he  was  possessed 
by  a  resolution  to  rid  himself  of  the  restraint  which  his  mar 
riage  had  brought  upon  him,  by  one  means  or  another — to  have 
known  this,  I  say,  would  have  so  frozen  her  young  blood,  would 
have  so  stricken  her  to  the  heart,  that,  if  it  had  not  slain  her 
outright,  it  would  have  left  her  surely — perhaps  happier  even 
to  be  such — a  maniac  for  the  poor  remnant  of  her  life. 


304  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

That  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  he  had  ridden  forth,  with  two 
or  three  dogs  at  his  heel,  and  the  gamekeeper,  James  Alderly, 
better  known  in  that  neighborhood  as  Black  Jem,  who  had  of 
late  been  his  constant  companion,  following  him. 

Dinner-time  had  passed — supper-time -r- yet  he  came  not; 
and  the  deserted  creature  was  yet  watching  wistfully,  hopefully 
for  his  return. 

Suddenly,  far  off  among  the  stems  of  the  distant  trees,  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  moving  object ;  it  approached ;  it  grew 
more  distinct — it  was  he,  returning  at  a  gallop,  as  he  seldom 
now  returned  to  his  distasteful  home,  with  his  dogs  careering 
merrily  along  by  his  side,  and  the  grim-visaged  keeper  spurring 
in  vain  to  keep  up  with  the  furious  speed  at  which  he  rode,  far 
in  the  rear  of  his  master. 

She  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  drew  a  long,  deep 
breath.  "  Once  more,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  he  hath 
come  back  to  me  once  more !" 

And  then  the  hope  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  the  changed 
pace  at  which  he  rode,  and  something  which  even  at  that  dis 
tance  she  could  descry  in  his  air  and  mien,  might  indicate  an 
alteration  in  his  feelings.  "  Yes,  yes  !  Great  God  !  can  it  be  ? 
He  sees  me,  he  waves  his  hand  to  me.  He  loves — he  loves* 
me  once  again !" 

And  with  a  mighty  effort,  she  choked  down  the  paroxysm 
of  joy,  which  had  almost  burst  out  in  a  flood  of  tears,  and  hur 
ried  from  the  room,  and  out  upon  the  terrace,  to  meet  him,  to 
receive  once  more  a  smile  of  greeting.  His  dogs  came  bound 
ing  up  to  her,  as  she  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stone  steps,  and 
fawned  upon  her,  for  they  loved  her — everything  loved  her, 
save  he  only  who  had  most  cause  to  do  so. 

Yet  now,  it  was  true,  he  did  smile  upon  her,  as  he  dismounted 
from  his  horse,  and  called  her  once  more  "  Dear  Theresa." 
And  he  passed  his  arm  about  her  slender  waist,  and  led  her 


A    GLEAM    OF    HAPPINESS.  305 

back  into  the  house,  chiding  her  good-hum  ore  dly  for  exposing 
herself  to  the  chilly  night-wind. 

"  I  feel  it  not,"  she  said  joyously,  with  her  own  sunny  smile 
lighting  up  her  face,  "  I  feel  it  not — nor  should  feel  it,  were  it 
charged  with  all  the  snow-storms  of  the  north ;  my  heart  is 
so  warm,  so  full.  Oh !  Jasper,  that  dear  name,  in  your  own 
voice,  has  made  me  but  too  happy." 

"  Silly  child  !"  he  replied,  "  silly  child,"  patting  her  affection 
ately  on  the  shoulder,  as  he  had  used  to  do  in  times  long  past — 
at  least  it.  seemed  long,  very  long  to  her,  though  they  were  in 
truth  but  a  few  months  distant.  "  And  do  you  love  me,  Theresa  ?" 

"  Love  you  ?"  she  said,  gazing  up  into  his  eyes  with  more 
of  wonder  that  he  should  ask  such  a  question,  than  of  any  other 
feeling.  "  Love  you,  O  God  !  can  you  doubt  it,  Jasper  ?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  hesitating  slightly,  "  no,  dearest.  And  yet  I 
have  given  you  but  little  cause  of  late  to  love  me." 

"  Do  you  know  that  —  do  you  feel  that,  Jasper?"  she  cried, 
eagerly,  joyously,  "  then  I  am,  indeed,  happy  ;  then  you  really 
do  love  me  ?" 

"  And  can  you  forgive  me,  Theresa  ?" 

"  Forgive  you — for  what?" 

"  For  the  pain  I  have  caused  you  of  late." 

"  It  is  all  gone — it  is  all  forgotten !  You  have  been  vexed, 
grieved  about  something  that  has  wrung  you  in  secret.  But 
you  should  have  told  me  of  it,  dearest  Jasper,  and  I  would  have 
consoled  you.  But  it  is  all,  all  over  now  ;  nay,  but  I  am  now 
glad  of  it  since  this  great  joy  is  all  the  sweeter  for  the  past  sor 
row." 

"  And  do  you  love  me  well  enough,  Theresa,  to  make  a  sac 
rifice,  a  great  sacrifice  for  me  ?" 

"  To  sacrifice  my  heart's  blood — ay,  my  life,  if  to  do  so  would 
make  you  happy." 

"  Your  life,  silly  wench !  how  should  your  little  life  profit 
26* 


306  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

me  ?  But  that  is  the  way  ever  with  you  women.  If  one  ask 
you  the  smallest  trifle,  you  ever  proffer  your  lives,  as  if  they 
could  be  of  any  use,  or  as  if  one  would  not  be  hanged  for  taking 
them.  I  have  known  girls  refuse  one  kiss,  and  then  make  a 
tender  of  their  lives." 

He  spoke  with  something  of  his  late  habitual  bitterness,  it 
is  true  ;  but  there  was  a  smile  on  his  face,  as  he  uttered  the 
words,  and  she  laughed  merrily,  as  she  answered. 

"  Oh !  I  will  not  refuse  you  fifty  of  those  ;  I  will  be  only  too 
glad  if  you  think  them  worth  the  taking.  But  I  did  speak  fool 
ishly,  dearest ;  and  you  must  not  blame  me  for  it,  for  my  heart 
is  so  over  flowing  with  joy,  that,  of  a  truth,  I  scarcely  know  what 
I  say.  I  only  wished  to  express  that  there  is  nothing  in  the 
wide  world  which  you  can  ask  of  me,  that  I  will  not  do,  wil 
lingly,  gladly.  Will  that  satisfy  you,  Jasper  ?" 

"  Why,  ay  !  if  you  hold  to  it,  Theresa,"  he  answered,  eagerly ; 
"  but,  mind  you,  it  is  really  a  sacrifice  which  I  ask — a  great 
sacrifice." 

"  No  sacrifice  is  great,"  she  replied,  pressing  his  arm,  on 
which  she  was  hanging  with  both  her  white  hands  linked  to 
gether  over  it,  "  no  sacrifice  which  I  can  make,  so  long  as  you 
love  me." 

"  I  do  love  you  dearly,  girl,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  if  you  do 
this  that  I  would  have  you  do,  I  will  love  you  ten  times  better 
than  I  do,  ten  times  better  than  I  ever  did." 

"  That  were  a  bribe,  indeed,"  she  replied,  laughing  with  her 
own  silvery,  girlish  laugh.  "  But  I  don't  believe  you  could 
love  me  ten  times  better  than  you  once  did,  Jasper.  But  if 
you  will  promise  me  to  love  me  ever  as  you  did  then,  you  may 
ask  me  anything  under  heaven." 

Well  I  will  promise  —  I  will  promise,  wench.  See  that  you 
be  as  ready  to  perform." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  he  stooped  down,  for  the  keeper  had  now 


A    DELUSION.  307 

retired  with  his  horses,  and  they  were  entirely  alone,  and  em 
braced  her  closely,  and  kissed  her  as  he  had  not  done  for  many 
a  month  before. 

"I  will  —  I  will,  indeed,  dearest  Jasper.  Tell  me,  what  is 
it  I  must  do  ?" 

"  Go  to  your  room,  dearest,  and  I  will  join  you  there  and  tell 
you.  I  must  get  me  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  goblet  of  wine,  and 
give  some  directions  to  the  men,  and  then  I  will  join  you." 

"  Do  not  be  very  long,  dearest.  I  am  dying  to  know  what  I 
can  do  to  please  you."  And  she  stood  upon  tiptoes,  and  kissed 
his  brow  playfully,  and  then  ran  up  stairs  with  a  lighter  step 
than  had  borne  her  for  many  a  day. 

Her  husband  gazed  after  her  with  a  grim  smile,  and  nodded 
his  head  in  self-approbation.  "  This  is  the  better  way,  after 
all.  But  will  she,  will  she  stand  to  it  ?  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised.  'S  death  !  one  can  never  learn  these  women  !  What 
d — d  fools  they  are,  when  all  is  told !  Flattery,  flattery  and 
falsehood,  lay  it  on  thick  enough,  will  win  the  best  of  them 
from  heaven  to  —  Hades  !" 

Oh,  man,  man  !  and  all  that  was  but  acting. 


308  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    SACRIFICE. 
"  Ask  anything  but  that." 

AN  hour  had  quite  passed,  when,  as  she  sat  alone  in  her 
little  gayly-de'corated  study,  with  its  walls  hung  with  water- 
color  drawing  of  her  own  execution,  its  tables  strewn  with  poe 
try  and  music  of  her  own  composition,  and  her  favorite  books, 
arid  her  own  lute — her  little  study  in  which  the  happiest  hours 
of  her  life  had  been  spent,  the  first  hours  of  her  married  life, 
while  Jasper  was  all  that  her  fancy  painted  him — his  step  came 
along  the  corridor,  but  with  a  slow  and  hesitating  sound,  most 
unlike  to  the  quick,  firm,  decided  tread,  for- which  he  was  re 
markable. 

She  noticed  the  difference,  it  is  true,  at  the  moment,  but  for 
got  it  again  instantly.  It  was  enough  !  It  was  he  !  and  he  was 
coming  once  again  to  seek  her  in  her  own  apartment ;  he  had 
a  boon  to  ask  of  her  —  he  had  promised  to  love  her — he  had 
called  her  "  his  dear  Theresa." 

And  now  she  sprang  up,  with  her  soul  beaming  from  her 
eyes,  and  ran  to  meet  him.  The  door  was  opened  ere  he 
reached  it,  and  as  he  entered,  she  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  wound 
her  snowy  arms  about  his  waist,  and  kissed  him  fifty  times,  and 
wept  silent  tears  in  the  fullness  of  her  joy. 

And  did  not  his  heart  respond  in  the  least  to  her  innocent 
and  girlish  rapture  ;  did  he  not  bend  at  all  from  his  bad  pur 
pose  ;  was  there  no  melting,  no  relenting  in  that  callous,  self 
ish  nature ;  was,  indeed,  all  within  him  hard  as  the  nether 
millstone  ? 


A  WIFE'S  DEVOTION.  309 

He  clasped  her,  he  caressed  her,  he  spoke  to  her  fondly, 
lovingly,  he  kissed  like  Judas  to  betray.  He  suffered  her  to 
lead  him  to  his  favorite  seat  of  old,  the  deep,  softly-cushioned, 
low  arm-chair,  and  to  place  her  footstool  by  his  side,  and  nestle 
herself  down  upon  it  as  she  used  to  do,  with  her  arms  folded 
negligently  across  his  knee,  and  her  beautiful  rounded  chin  prop 
ped  upon  them,  with  her  great  earnest  eyes  looking  up  in  his 
face,  like  unfathomable  wells  of  tenderness. 

And  he  returned  her  gaze  of  fondness,  unabashed,  unem 
barrassed  ;  and  yet  it  was  some  time  before  he  spoke  ;  and 
when  he  did  speak  at  length,  his  voice  was  altered  and  almost 
husky.  But  it  was  from  doubt  how  best  he  might  pfey  his  part, 
not  that  he  shrunk  from  the  task  he  had  imposed  upon  himself, 
either  for  shame  or  for  pity. 

"  Well  my  Theresa,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  have  you  thought 
whether  you  will  make  this  sacrifice  ?" 

"  No,  Jasper,  I  have  not  thought  about  it ;  but  if  you  wish 
me  to  make  it,  I  will  make  it,  and  it  will  be  no  sacrifice." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Theresa,  that  it  is  a  sacrifice,  a  mighty  and 
most  painful  sacrifice  ;  a  sacrifice  so  great  and  so  terrible,  that 
I  almost  fear,  almost  feel  that  it  would  be  selfish  in  me  to  ask 
it  of  you." 

"  Ask  it,  then  ;  ask  it  quickly,  that  you  may  see  how  readily 
it  shall  be  granted." 

"  Can  you  conceive  no  sacrifice  that  you  would  not  make  to 
please  me  ?" 

"  None  that  you  would  ask  of  me." 

"  Theresa,  no  one  can  say  what  another  might  ask  of  them. 
Husbands,  lovers,  brothers,  have  asked  strange  sacrifices  —  fear 
ful  sacrifices,  at  woman's  hands  ;  and — they  have  been  made." 

"  Ask  me,  then,  ask  me,"  she  repeated,  smiling,  although  her 
face  had  grown  somewhat  pale  as  she  listened  to  his  words, 
and  marked  his  strangely  excited  manner.  "  I  repeat,  there  is 


310  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

no  sacrifice  which  you  would  ask  of  me,  which  I  will  not  make. 
Nay  more,  there  is  none  which  I  should  think  a  sacrifice  if  it 
is  to  preserve  your  love  to  me,  when  I  feared  that  I  had  lost  it 
for  ever,  though  how,  indeed,  I  knew  not." 

"  We  shall  see,"  he  said  affecting  to  muse  with  himself,  and 
ponder  deeply.  "  We  shall  see  ;  you  are  a  great  historian,  and 
have  read  of  all  the  celebrated  women  of  times  past  and  present. 
You  have  heard  of  the  beautiful  Mademoiselle  Desvieux,  she 
who  —  " 

"  She  who  was  the  promised  wife  of  the  great,  the  immortal 
Bossuet ;  and  who  sacrificed  her  own  happiness,  freeing  her 
lover  fronnthe  claims  she  held  on  him,  lest  a  wife  should  be  a 
clog  upon  his  pure  yet  soaring  ambition,  lest  an  earthly  affec 
tion  should  wean  him  from  a  higher  love,  and  weaken  the  cords 
that  were  drawing  him  toward  heaven  !  I  have  —  I  have  heard 
of  her  !  Who  has  not — who  does  not  revere  her  name — who 
does  not  love  her  ? 

"  And  what  think  you  of  her  sacrifice,  Theresa  ?" 

"  That  it  was  her  duty.  A  difficult  duty  to  perform,  you  will 
say,  but  still  her  duty.  Her  praise  is,  that  she  performed  it  glo 
riously.  And  yet  I  doubt  not  that  her  sacrifice  bore  her  its 
own  exceeding  great  reward.  Loving  as  she  loved,  all  her 
sorrows  must  have  been  changed  into  exultation,  when  she  saw 
him- in  after  days  the  saint  he  became,  the  saint  she  helped  to 
make  him." 

"  And  could  you  have  made  such  a  sacrifice,  Theresa  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  and  I  think  so,"  she  replied  with  a  little  hesita 
tion.  "  But  it  avails  not  now  to  think  of  that,  seeing  that  I  can 
not  make  such.  She  was  a  maiden,  I  am  a  wedded  wife." 

"  True  dearest,  true.  I  only  named  her,  to  judge,  by  your 
opinion,  of  what  I  wish  to  learn,  ere  I  will  ask  you.  There 
was  another  sacrifice,  Theresa,  a  very  terrible  sacrifice,  made 
of  late,  and  made  to  no  purpose,  too,  as  it  fell  out — a  sacrifice 


THE    CONDEMNED    CAVALIER.  311 

of  far  more  doubtful  nature  ;  yet  there  be  some  who  have  not 
failed  to  praise  it  ?" 

"  What  was  it — do  you  praise  it?" 

"  At  least  I  pity  it,  Theresa." 

"What  was  it?  — tell  me." 

"  After  the  late  rebellion  at  Sedgemoor.  Have  you  not  heard, 
Theresa  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not — go  on,  I  want  to  hear  it ;  go  on,  Jasper." 

"  There  was  a  young  man,  a  cavalier,  very  young,  very 
brave,  very  nobly  born,  and,  it  is  said,  very  handsome.  He 
was  taken  after  the  rout  of  that  coward,  Gray  of  Werk's  horse 
—  cast  into  prison,  and,  when  his  turn  came,  tried  by  the  butch 
er,  Kirke  —  you  know  what  that  means,  Theresa." 

"  Condemned,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  Of  course  he  was  con 
demned —  what  next?" 

"  To  be  hung  by  the  neck  upon  the  shameful  gibbet,  and  then 
cut  down,  while  yet  alive,  and  subjected  to  all  the  barbarous 
tortures  which  are  inflicted  as  the  penalty  of  high  treason." 

"  Horrible  !  horrible  !  and — what  more,  Jasper  ?" 

"  Have  you  not,  indeed,  heard  the  tale  ?" 

"  Indeed,  no,  I  pray  you  tell  me,  for  you  have  moved  me 
very  deeply." 

"  It  is  very  moving.  The  boy  had  a  sister — the  loveliest 
creature,  it  is  said,  that  trod  the  soil  of  England,  scarce  seven 
teen  years  of  age,  a  very  paragon  of  grace,  and  purity,  and 
beauty.  They  two  were  alone  in  the  world — parents,  kinsfolk, 
friends,  they  had  none.  They  had  none  to  lover  but  one  anoth 
er,  even  as  we,  my  Theresa;  and  they  did  love — how,  you 
may  judge.  The  girl  threw  herself  at  the  butcher's  feet,  and 
implored  her  brother's  pardon." 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  Jasper,"  cried  the  young  wife,  excited  almost 
beyond  the  power  of  restraining  her  emotions  by  the  dreadful 
interest  of  his  tale,  "  and,  for  once,  he  granted  it." 


312  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"And,  for  once,  as  you  say,  he  granted  it.  But  upon  one 
condition." 

"  And  that  was* — " 

"  And  that  was,  that  the  young  girl  should  make  a  sacrifice 
—  an  awful  sacrifice  —  should  submit,  in  a  word,  to  be  a  martyr 
for  her  brother's  sake." 

"  To  die  for  him  —  and  she  died!  Of  course,  she  died  to 
save  him ;  that  was  no  sacrifice,  none,  Jasper  —  I  say  none  ! 
Why,  any  woman  would  have  clone  that." 

"  It  was  not  to  die  for  him  —  it  was  to  sacrifice  herself — her 
self —  for  she  was  lovely,  as  I  told  you — to  the  butcher." 

"  Ah  !"  sighed  Theresa,  with  a  terrible  sensation  at  her  heart, 
which  she  could  not  explain,  even  to  herself;  "and  what  — 
what  did  she  ?" 

"  She  asked  permission  to  consult  her  brother." 

"  And  he  told  her  that  he  had  rather  die  ten  thousand  deaths 
than  that  she  should  lose  one  hair's  breadth  of  her  honor  !" 
cried  Theresa,  enthusiastically  clasping  her  hands  together. 

"  And  he  told  her  that  life  was  very  sweet,  and  death  on  a 
gallows  very  shameful !" 

"  The  caitiff!  the  miserable,  loathsome  slave  !  the  filthy  das 
tard  !  I  trust  that  Kirke  drew  him  with  wild  horses !  The 
gallows  were  too  good  for  such  a  slave." 

"  Then  you  would  not  have  made  such  a  sacrifice  ?" 

"  / — I !"  she  exclaimed,  her  soft,  blue  eyes  actually  flashing 
fire  ;  "  I  sacrifice  my  honor  !  but  lo  !"  she  interrupted  herself, 
smiling  at  her  own  vehemence,  "  am  I  not  a  little  fool,  to  fancy 
that  you  are  in  earnest  ?  No,  dearest  Jasper,  I  would  no  more 
make  that  sacrifice,  than  you  would  suffer  me  to  do  so.  Did 
not  I  make  that  reservation  ?  did  I  not  say  any  sacrifice,  which 
you  would  ask  of  me  ?" 

"  Ay,  dearest !"  he  replied,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  her 
head,  "you  do  me  no  more  than  justice  there.  I  would  die  as 


313 

many  deaths  as  I  have  hairs  on  my  head,  before  you  should  so 
save  me."  And  for  the  first  time  that  night  Jasper  St.  Aubyn 
spoke  in  earnest. 

"  I  know  you  would,  Jasper.  But  go  on,  I  pray  you,  with 
this  fearful  tale.  I  would  you  had  not  begun  it ;  but  now  you 
have,  I  must  hear  it  to  the  end.  What  did  she  ?" 

"  She  did,  Theresa,  as  her  brother  bade  her.  She  sacrificed 
herself  to  the  butcher  !" 

"  Poor  wretch !  poor  wretch  !  and  so  her  brother  lived  with 
the  world's  scorn  and  curses  on  his  head  —  and  she — did  she 
die,  Jasper  ?" 

"  No,  my  Theresa.  She  is  alive  yet.  It  was  the  brother 
died." 

"  How  so  ?  how  could  that  be  ?     Did  Kirke  then  relent  ?" 

"  Kirke  never  relented  !  When  the  girl  awoke  in  the  butch 
er's  chamber,  with  fame  and  honor — all  that  she  loved  in  life 
lost  to  her  for  ever — he  bade  her  look  out  of  the  window — 
what  think  yon  she  saw  there,  Theresa  ?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  The  thing,  that  an  hour  before  was  her  brother,  dangling 
in  the  accursed  noose  from  the  gibbet." 

"  And  God  did  not  speak  in  thunder  ?" 

"•  To  the  girl's  mind,  he  spoke  —  for  that  went  astray  at  once, 
jangled  and  jarred,  and  out  of  tune  for  ever !  There  was  a 
sacrifice,  Theresa." 

"A  wicked  one,  and  so  it  ended,  wickedly.  We'll  none 
of  such  sacrifices,  Jasper.  If  we  should  ever  have  to  die, 
which  God  avert  in  his  mercy,  any  death  of  violence  or  hor 
ror,  we  will  die  tranquilly  and  together.  Will  we  not,  dearest  ?" 

"  As  you  said  but  now,  may  the  good  God  guard  us  from 
such  a  fate,  Theresa  ;  and  yet,"  he  added,  looking  at  her  fixed 
ly,  and  with  a  strange. expression,  "  we  may  be  nearer  to  it  than 
we  think  for,  even  now." 

27 


314  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

| 

"  Nearer  to  what,  Jasper  ?  speak,"  she  cried  eagerly,  as  if 
she  had  missed  the  meaning  of  the  words  he  last  uttered. 

"  Nearer  to  the  perils  of  the  law,  for  high  treason/'  answered 
her  husband,  in  a  low,  dejected  voice.  "  It  is  of  that  I  have 
been  anxious  to  speak  with  you  all  the  time." 

"  Then  speak  at  once,  for  God's  sake,  dearest  Jasper !  speak 
at  once,  and  fully,  that  we  may  know  the  worst ;"  and  she 
showed  more  composure  now,  in  what  she  naturally  deemed 
the  extremity  of  peril,  than  he  had  looked  for,  judging  from  the 
excitement  she  had  manifested  at  the  mere  listening  to  the 
story  of  another's  perils.  "  Say  on,"  she  added,  seeing  that  he 
hesitated,  "  let  me  know  the  worst." 

"  It  must  be  so,  though  it  is  hard  to  tell,  Theresa  ;  we  —  my 
self,  I  mean,  and  a  band  of  the  first  and  noblest  youths  of  Eng 
land — have  been  engaged,  these  three  months  past,  in  a  con 
spiracy,  to  banish  from  the  throne  of  England  this  last  and 
basest  son  of  a  weak,  bigoted,  unlucky  race  of  kings — this 
cowardly,  blood-thirsty,  persecuting  bigot — this  papist  monarch 
of  a  protestant  land,  this  James  the  Second,  as  men  call  him  ; 
and  to  set  in  his  place  the  brave,  wise,  virtuous  William  of 
Nassau,  now  stadtholder  of  the  United  Provinces.  It  is  this 
business  which  has  obliged  me  to  be  absent  so  often  of  late,  in 
London.  It  is  the  failure  of  this  business  which  has  rendered 
me  morose,  unkind,  irritable — need  I  say  more,  you  have  par 
doned  me,  Theresa." 

<;  The  failure  of  this  business  !"  she  exclaimed,  gazing  at, 
him  with  a  face  from  which  dismay  had  banished  every  hue  of 
color,  "  the  failure  !" 

"  Ay,  Theresa,  it  is  even  so.  Had  we  succeeded  in  libera 
ting  England  from  the  cold  tyrant's  bloody  yoke,  we  had  been 
patriots,  saviors,  fathers  of  our  country — Brutuses,  for  what  I 
know,  and  Timoleons !  We  have  failed — therefore,  we  are 
rebels,  traitors  ;  and,  I  suppose,  ere  long  shall  be  victims." 


THE    PRETENDED    PERIL.  315 

"  The  plot,  then,  is  discovered  ?" 

"  Even  so,  Theresa." 

"  And  how  long,  Jasper,  have  you  known  this  dreadful  ter 
mination  ?" 

"  I  have  foreseen  it  these  six  weeks  or  more.  I  knew  it,  for 
the  first  time,  to-day." 

"  And  is  it  absolutely  known,  divulged,  proclaimed  ?  Have 
arrests  been  made  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  degree  of  coolness  that 
amazed  him,  while  he  felt  that  it  augured  ill  for  the  success  of 
his  iniquitous  scheme  ;  but  he  had,  in  some  sort,  foreseen  her 
questions,  and  his  answers  were  prepared  already.  He  an 
swered,  therefore,  as  unhesitatingly  as  if  there  had  been  one 
word  of  truth  in  all  that  he  was  uttering. 

"  It  is  all  known  to  one  of  the  leading  ministers  of  the  gov 
ernment  ;  it  is  not  divulged ;  and  no  arrests  have  been  made 
yet.  But  the  breathing  space  will  be  brief." 

"  All,  then,  is  easy  !  Let  us  fly  !  Let  us  take  horse  at  once 
—  this  very  night!  By  noon  to-morrow,  we  shall  be  in  Ply 
mouth,  and  thence  we  can  gain  France,  and  be  safe  there  until 
this  tyranny  shall  be  o'erpast." 

"  Brave  girl !"  he  replied,  with  the  affectation  of  a  melan 
choly  smile.  "  Brave  Theresa,  you  would  bear  exile,  ruin, 
poverty,  with  the  outlawed  traitor  ;  and  we  might  still  be  hap 
py.  But  alas,  girl !  it  is  too  late  to  fly.  The  ports  are  all 
closed  throughout  England.  It  is  too  late  to  fly,  and  to  fight  is 
impossible. 

"  Then  it  remains  only  that  we  die !"  she  exclaimed,  casting 
herself  into  his  arms,  "  and  that  is  not  so  difficult,  now  that  I  know 
you  love  me,  Jasper."  But,  even  as  she  uttered  the  words,  his 
previous  conversation  recurred  to  her  mind,  and  she  started 
from  his  arms,  crying  out,  "  But  you  spoke  of  a  sacrifice  !  —  a 
sacrifice  which  I  could,  make  !  Is  it  possible  that  I  can  save 
you  r 


316  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  Not  me  alone,  Theresa,  but  all  the  band  of  brothers  who 
are  sworn  to  this  emprise  ;  nor  them  alone,  but  England,  which 
may,  by  your  deed,  still  be  liberated  from  the  tyrant." 

She  turned  her  beautiful  eyes  upward,  and  her  lips  moved 
rapidly,  although  she  spoke  not.  She  was  praying  for  aid  from 
on  high  —  for  strength  to  do  her  duty. 

He  watched  her  with  calm,  expectant,  unmoved  eyes,  and 
muttered  to  himself,  "  I  have  gained.  She  will  yield." 

"Now,"  she  said,  "now,"  as  her  prayer  was  ended,  "I  am 
strong  now  to  bear.  Tell  me,  Jasper,  what  must  I  do  to  save 
you  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,  dearest.  I  can  not — it  is  too  much — 
you  could  not  make  it ;  nor  if  yon  would,  could  I  ?  Let  it 
pass.  We  will  die  —  all  die  together." 

"  And  England !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  her  face  kindling 
gloriously  ;  "  and  our  mother  England,  must  she  perish  by  inch 
es  in  the  tyrant's  clutch,  because  we  are  cowards  ?  No,  Jas 
per,  no.  Be  of  more  constant  mind.  Tell  me,  what  is  it  I 
must  do  ?  and,  though  it  wring  my  heart  and  rack  my  brain,  if 
I  can  save  you  and  your  gallant  friends,  and  our  dear  native 
land,  I  will  save  them,  though  it  kill  me.' 

"  Could  you  endure  to  part  from  me,  Theresa — to  part  from 
me  for  ever  1 

"  To  part  from  .you,  Jasper !"  no  written  phrase  can  express 
the  agony,  the  anguish,  the  despair,  which  were  made  mani 
fest  in  every  sound  of  those  few,  simple  words.  A  breaking 
heart  spoke  out  in  every  accent. 

"  Ay,  to  part  from  me,  never  to  see  me  more — never  to  hear 
my  voice  ;  only  to  know  that  I  exist,  and  that  I  love  you — love 
you  beyond  my  own  soul !  Could  you  do  this,  Theresa,  in  the 
hope  of  a  meeting  hereafter,  where  no  tyranny  should  ever  part 
us  any  more  ? 

"  I  know  not  —  I  know  not !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  shrill,  pier- 


THE    DEMANDED    SACRIFICE.  317 

cing  tone,  most  unlike  her  usual  soft,  slow  utterance.  "  Is  this 
the  sacrifice  you  spoke  of?  Would  this  be  called  for  at  my 
hands  ?" 

"  To  part  from  me  so  utterly  that  it  should  riot  be  known  or 
suspected  that  we  had  ever  met — ever  been  wedded." 

"  Why,  Jasper^"  she  cried,  starting,  and  gazing  at  him  wildly, 
"  that  were  impossible  ;  all  the  world  knows  that  we  have  met" 
— that  we  have  lived  together  here  —  that  I  am  your  wife. 
Wrhat  do  you  mean?  Are  you" jesting  with  me?  No,  no! 
God  help  me  !  that  resolute,  stern,  dark  expression.  No,  no, 
no,  no  !  Do  not  frown  on  me,  Jasper ;  but  keep  me  not  in  this 
suspense  —  only  tell  me,  Jasper." 

"  The  whole  world — that  is  to  say,  the  whole  world  of  villa 
gers  and  peasants  here,  do  know  that  we  have  met — that  we 
have  lived  together  ;  but  they  do  not  know  —  nay,  more,  they  do 
not  believe,  that  you  are  my  wife,  Theresa." 

"Not  your  wife — not  your  wife!  What,  in  God's  name, 
then,  do  they  believe  me  to  be.  But  I  am — I  am — yes,  before 
God  and  man,  I  am  your  wife,  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  !  That  shame 
will  I  never  bear.  The  parish  register  will  prove  it." 

"  Before  God,  dearest,  most  assuredly  you  are  my  wife ;  but 
before  man,  I  grieve  to  say,  it  is  not  so  ;  nor  will  the  register,  to 
which  you  appeal  —  as  I  did,  when  I  first  heard  the  scandal  — 
prove  anything,  but  against  you.  It  seems  the  rascal  sexton 
cut  out  the  record  of  our  marriage  from  the  register,  so  soon  as 
the  old  rector  died.  He  is  gone,  so  that  he  can  witness  noth 
ing.  Alderly  and  the  sexton  will  not  speak,  for  to  do  so  would 
implicate  themselves  in  the  guilt  of  having  mutilated  the  church- 
register.  Alderly's  mother  is  an  idiot.  We  can  prove  nothing." 
"  And  when  did  you  learn  all  this,  Jasper  ?"  she  asked,  calm 
ly  ;  for  a  light,  a  fearful  yet  most  clear  illumination  began  to 
dawn  upon  her  mind. 

"  Last  night.     And  I  rode  down  this  morning  to  the  church, 

27* 


318  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

to  inspect  the  register.  It  is  as  I  was  told  ;  there  is  no  trace 
of  the  record  which  we  signed,  and  saw  witnessed,  on  its 
pages." 

"  And  to  what  end  should  Verity  and  Alderly  have  done  this 
great  crime  needlessly  ?" 

"  Villains  themselves,  they  fancied  that  I  ^)o  was  a  villain  ; 
and  that,  if  not.  then,  at  some  after  time,  I  should  desire  to  profit 
by  their  villany,  and  should  then  be  in  their  power." 

"  Ha  !"  she  said,  still  maintaining  her  perfect  possession.  "  It 
seems,  at  least,  that  their  villany  was  wise,  was  prophetical." 

"  Theresa  !"  his  voice  was  stern,  and  harsh,  and  threatening 
— his  brow  as  black  as  midnight. 

"  Pardon  me  !"  she  said.  "  Pardon  me,  Jasper  ;  but  you 
should  make  allowance  for  some  feeling  in  a  woman.  I  am, 
then,  looked  upon  as  a  lost,  fallen  wretch,  as  a  disgrace  to  my 
name  and  my  sex,  a  concubine,  a  harlot — is  it  not  so,  Jasper  ?' 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  Theresa  !" 

"  And  you  would  have  me  ?  —  speak  !" 

"  I  would  not  have  you  do  it ;  God  knows  !  it  goes  nigh  to 
break  my  heart  to  think  of  it — I  only  tell  you  what  alone  can 
save  us  —  " 

"  I  understand  —  it  needs  not  to  mince  the  matter  ;  what  is  it, 
then,  can  save  us  —  save  you,  I  should  say  rather,  and  your 
friends  ?" 

"  That  you  should  leave  me,  Theresa,  and  go  where  you 
would,  so  it  were  not  within  a  hundred  miles  of  this  place  — 
but  better  to  France  or  Italy  ;  all  that  wealth  could  procure  you 
should  have  ;  and  my  love  would  be  yours  above  all  things, 
even  although  we  never  meet,  until  we  meet  in  heaven." 

"  Heaven,  sir,  is  for  the  innocent  and  faithful,  not  for  the  liar 
and  the  traitor  !  But  how  shall  this  avail  anything  to  save  you, 
if  I  consent  to  do  it?  I  must  know,  all ;  I  must  see  all  clearly, 
before  I  act." 


THE    ANSWER.  319 

"  Are  you  strong  enough  to  bear  what  I  shall  say  to  you,  my 
poor  Theresa  ?" 

"  Else  had  I  not  borne  to  hear  what  you  have  said  to  me." 

"  It  is  the  secretary  of  state,  then,  who  has  discovered  our 
plot.  He  is  himself  half  inclined  to  join  us  ;  but  he  is  a  weak, 
interested,  selfish  being,  although  of  vast  wealth,  great  influ 
ence,  and  birth  most  noble.  Now,  he  has  a  daughter — " 

"  Ah !"  the  wretched  girl  started  as  if  an  ice-bolt  had  shot  to 
her  very  heart,  "  and  you — you  would  wed  her !" 

"  That  is  to  say,  he  would  have  me  wed  her ;  and  on  that 
condition  joins  our  party.  And  so  our  lives,  and  England's  lib 
erties,  should  be  preserved  by  your  glorious  sacrifice." 

"  I  must  think,  then  —  I  must  think,"  she  answered,  burying 
her  head  in  her  hands,  in  truth,  to  conceal  the  agony  of  her 
emotions,  and  to  gain  time,  not  for  deliberation,  but  to  compose 
her  mind  and  clear  her  voice  for  speech. 

And  he  stood  gazing  on  her,  with  the  cold,  cutting  eye,  the 
calm,  sarcastic,  sneer,  of  a  very  Mephistopheles.  believing  that 
she  was  about  to  yield,  and  inwardly  mocking  the  very  weak 
ness  on  which  he  had  played,  to  his  own  base  and  cruel  pur 
poses. 

But  in  a  moment  she  arose  and  confronted  him,  pale,  calm, 
majestical,  most  lovely  in  her  extremity  of  sorrow,  but  firm  as 
a  hero  or  a  martyr. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  cold,  ringing  voice,  "  this  is 
the  sacrifice  you  ask  of  me  ? — to  sever  myself  from  you  for 
ever — to  go  forth  into  the  great,  cruel,  cold  world  alone,  with 
a  bleeding,  broken  heart,  a  blighted  reputation,  and  a  blasted 
name  ?  All  this  I  might  endure,  perhaps  I  would — but  you 
have  asked  more  of  me,  Jasper.  You  have  asked  me  to 
confess  myself  a  thing  infamous  and  vile  —  a  polluted  wretch 
— not  a  wife,  but  a  wanton !  You  have  asked  me,  your  own 
wedded  wife,  to  write  myself  down,  with  my  own  hand,  a  har- 


320  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

lot,  and  to  stand  by  and  look  on  at  your  marriage  with  another 
—  as  if  I  were  the  filthy  thing  you  would  name  me.  Than  be 
that  thing,  Jasper,  I  would  rather  die  a  hundred -fold ;  than  call 
myself  that  thing,  being  innocent  of  deed  or  thought  of  shame, 
I  had  rather  be  'it !  Now,  sir,  are  you  answered  ?  What,  heap 
the  name  of  harlot  on  my  mother's  ashes  !  What,  blacken  my 
dead  father's  stainless  escutcheon!  What — lie,  before  my 
God,  to  brand  myself,  the  first  of  an  honest  line,  with  the 
strumpet's  stain  of  blackness  !  Never  !  never !  though  thou  and 
I,  and  all  the  youth  of  England,  were  to  die  in  tortures  incon 
ceivable  ;  never  !  though  England  were  to  perish  unredeemed  ! 
Now,  sir,  I  ask  you,  are  you  answered  ?" 

"  I  am,"  he  replied,  perfectly  unmoved,  "  I  am  answered, 
Theresa,  as  I  hoped,  as  I  expected  to  be." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  —  did  you  not  ask  me  to  do  this  thing?" 

"  I  did  not,  Theresa.  I  told  you  what  sacrifice  might  save 
us  all.  I  did  not  ask  you  to  make  it.  Nay,  did  I  not  tell  you 
that  I  would  not  even  suffer  you  to  make  it  ?" 

"  But  you  told  me —  you  told  me  —  God  help  me,  for  I  think 
I  shall  go  mad  !  Oh  !  tempt  me  no  further,  Jasper  ;  try  me  no 
further.  Is  —  is  this  true,  that  you  have  told  me  ?" 

"Every  word — every  word  of  it,  my  own  best  love,"  an 
swered  the  arch  deceiver,  "  save  only  that  I  would  not  for  my 
life,  nay,  for  my  soul,  have  suffered  you  to  make  the  sacrifice  I 
spoke  of.  Perish  myself,  my  friends  !  perish  England !  nay, 
perish  the  whole  earth,  rather  !" 

"  Then  why  so  tempt  me  ?  Why  so  sorely,  so  cruelly  try 
this  poor  heart,  Jasper  ?" 

"  To  learn  if  you  were  strong  enough  to  share  in  my  secrets 
—  and  you  shall  share  them.  We  must  fly,  Theresa  ;  not  from 
Plymouth ;  not  from  any  seaport,  but  from  the  wildest  gorge  in 
the  wild  coast  of  Devon.  I  have  hired  a  fishing-boat  to  await 
us.  We  must  ride  forth  alone,  as  if  for  a  pleasure -party,  across 


A    CHANGE    OF    TACTICS.  321 

the  hills,  to-morrow,  and  so  make  our  way  to  the  place  ap 
pointed.  If  we  escape,  all  shall  be  well  —  come  the  worst,  as 
you  said,  my  own  Theresa,  at  least  we  shall  die  together." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Jasper  ?" 

"  On  my  soul !  by  the  God  who  hears  me  !" 

"  And  you  will  take  me  with  you  ;  you  will  not  cast  me  from 
you ;  you  will  uphold  me  ever  to  be  your  own,  your  wedded 
wife  ?" 

"I  will  —  I  will.  Not  for  the  universe!  not  for  my  own 
soul !  would  I  lose  you,  my  own,  my  own  Theresa  !" 

And  he  clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  in  the  fondest,  closest  em 
brace,  and  kissed  her  beautiful  lips  eagerly,  passionately.  And 
she,  half  fainting  in  his  arms,  could  only  murmur,  in  the  revul 
sion  of  her  feelings,  "  Oh,  happy!  happy!  too,  too  happy!" 

Then  he  released  her  from  his  arms,  and  bade  her  go  to  bed, 
for  it  was  waxing  late,  and  she  would  need  a  good  night's  rest 
to  strengthen  her  for  the  toils  of  to-morrow's  journey. 

And  she  smiled  on  him,  and  prayed  him  not  to  tarry  long 
ere  he  joined  her ;  and  retired,  still  agitated  and  nervous  from 
the  long  continuance  of  the  dreadful  mental  conflict  to  which 
he  had  subjected  her. 

But  he,  when  she  had  left  the  room,  turned  almost  instantly 
as  pale  as  ashes — brow,  cheeks,  nay,  his  very  lips  were  white 
and  cold.  The  actor  was  exhausted  by  his  own  exertions. 
The  man  shrunk  from  the  task  which  was  before  him. 

"  The  worse  for  her !"  he  muttered,  through  his  hard-set 
teeth,  "  the  worse  for  her !  the  obstinate,  vain,  wilful  fool !  I 
would,  by  Heaven  !  I  would  have  saved  her  !" 

Then  he  clasped  his  burning  brow  with  the  fingers  of  his 
left  hand,  as  if  to  compress  its  fierce,  rapid  beating,  and  strode 
to  and  fro,  through  the  narrow  room,  working  the  muscles  of 
his  clinched  right  hand,  as  if  he  grasped  the  hilt  of  sword  or 
dagger. 


322  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  he  said  at  length ;  "  there  is  no 
other  way,  and  I  must  do  it — must  do  it  with  my  own  hand. 
But  —  can  I  —  can  I  —  ?"  he  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed 
his  troubled  walk.  Then  halted,  and  muttered  in  a  deep  voice, 
"  By  hell !  there  is  naught  that  a  man  can  not  do  ;  and  I  —  am  I 
not  a  man,  and  a  right  resolute,  and  stout  one  ?  It  shall  be  so 
—  it  is  her  fate  !  her  fate  !  Did  not  her  father  speak  of  it  that 
night,  as  I  lay  weak  and  wounded  on  the  bed  ?  did  I  not  dream 
it  thrice  thereafter,  in  that  same  bed  ?  though  then  I  understood 
it  not.  It  shall  be  there  —  even  there  —  where  I  saw  it  hap 
pen  ;  so  shall  it  pass  for  accident.  It  is  fate  !  —  who  can  strive 
against  their  fate  ?" 

Again  he  was  silent,  and  during  that  momentary  pause  a  deep, 
low,  muttering  roar  was  heard  in  the  far  distance  —  a  breathless 
hush  —  and  again,  that  long,  hollow,  crashing  roll,  that  tells  of 
elemental  warfare. 

Jasper's  eyes  flashed,  and  his  whole  face  glared  with  a  fear 
ful  and  half-frenzied  illumination. 

"  It  is"  he  cried,  "  it  is  thunder  !  From  point  to  point  it  is 
true  !  It  is  her  fate — her  fate  !" 

And  with  the  words,  he  rushed  from  the  room  ;  and  within 
ten  minutes,  was  folded  in  the  rapturous  embrace  of  the  snowy 
arms  of  her,  whose  doom  of  death  he  had  decreed  already  in 
the  secrets  of  his  guilty  soul. 


THE    WAR    OF    ELEMENTS.  323 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    DEED    OF    BLOOD. 

"  It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view, 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue." — Brnoir. 

THROUGHOUT  that  livelong  night,  the  thunder  roared  and 
roared  incessantly,  and  from  moment  to  moment  the  whole  fir 
mament  seemed  to  yawn  asunder,  showing  its  inner  vaults, 
sheeted  with  living  and  coruscant  fire,  while  ever  and  anon 
long,  arrowy,  forked  tongues,  of  incandescent  brightness,  darted 
down  from  the  zenith,  cleaving  the  massive  storm-clouds  with 
a  crash  that  made  the  whole  earth  reel  and  shudder. 

Never,  within  the  memory  of  man,  had  such  a  storm  been 
known  at  that  season  of  the  year.  Huge  branches,  larger  than 
trees  of  ordinary  size,  were  rent  from  the  gigantic  oaks  by  the 
mere  force  of  the  hurricane,  and  whirled  away  like  straws  be 
fore  its  fury.  The  rain  fell  not  in  drops  or  showers,  but  in 
vast  sheeted  columns.  The  -rills  were  swollen  into  rivers,  the 
rivers  covered  the  lowland  meadows,  expanded  into  very  seas. 
Houses  were  unroofed,  steeples  and  chimneys  hurled  in  ruin  to 
the  earth,  cattle  were  killed  in  the  open  fields,  unscathed  by 
lightning,  by  the  mere  weight  of  the  storm. 

Yet  through  that  awful  turmoil  of  the  elements,  which  kept 
men  waking,  and  bold  hearts  trembling  from  the  Land's  End  to 
Cape  Wrath,  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  slept  as  calmly  as  an  infant, 
with  his  head  pillowed  on  the  soft  bosom  of  his  innocent  and 
lovely  wife.  And  she,  though  the  tempest  roared  around,  and 
the  thunder  crashed  above  her,  so  that  she  could  not  close  an 
eye  in  sleep  ;  though  she  believed  that  to-morrow  she  was  about 
to  fly  from  her  native  land,  her  home,  never,  perhaps,  to  see 


324  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

them  more  ;  though  she  looked  forward  to  a  life  of  toil  and 
wandering,  of  hardship,  and  of  peril  as  an  exile's  wife,  perhaps 
to  a  death  of  horror,  as  a  traitor's  confederate,  she  blessed  God 
with  a  grateful  heart,  that  he  had  restored  to  her  her  husband's 
love,  and  watched  that  dear  sleeper,  dreaming  a  waking  dream 
of  perfect  happiness. 

But  him  no  dreams,  either  sleeping  or  waking,  disturbed  from 
his  heavy  stupor,  or  diverted  from  his  hellish  purpose.  So 
resolute,  so  iron-like  in  its  unbending  pertinacity  was  that 
young,  boyish  mind,  that  having  once  resolved  upon  his  action, 
not  all  the  terrors  of  heaven  or  of  hell  could  have  turned  him 
from  it. 

There  lay  beneath  one  roof,  on  one  marriage-bed,  ay,  clasped 
in  one  embrace,  the  resolved  murderer,  and  his  unconscious 
victim.  And  he  had  tasted  the  honey  of  her  lips,  had  fondled, 
had  caressed  her  to  the  last,  had  sunk  to  sleep,  lulled  by  the 
sweet,  low  voice  of  her  who,  if  his  power  should  mate  his  will, 
would  never  look  upon  a  second  morrow. 

And  here,  let  no  one  say  such  things  can  not  be,  save  in  the 
fancy  of  the  rhapsodist  or  the  romancer  —  that  such  things  are 
impossible  —  for  not  only  is  there  nothing  under  the  sun  impos 
sible  to  human  power,  or  beyond  the  aim  of  human  wickedness, 
but  such  things  are  and  have  been,  and  will  be  again,  so  long 
as  human  passion  exists  uncontrolled  by  principle. 

Such  things  have  been  among  ourselves,  and  in  our  own  day, 
as  he  who  writes  has  seen,  and  many  of  those  who  read  must 
needs  remember — and  such  things  were  that  night  at  Wide- 
comb. 

With  the  first  dappling  of  the  dawn,  the  rage  of  the  elements 
sunk  into  rest,  the  winds  sighed  themselves  to  sleep,  the  pelt 
ing  torrents  melted  into  a  soft,  gray  mist ;  only  the  roar  of  the 
distant  waters,  mellowed  into  a  strange,  fitful  murmur,  was 
heard  in  the  general  tranquillity  that  followed  the  loud  uproar. 


THE    LAST    EARTHLY    SLUMBER.  325 

Wearied  with  her  involuntary  watching,  Theresa  fell  asleep 
also,  still  clasping  in  her  fond  arms  the  miserable,  guilty  thing 
which  she  had  sworn  so  fatally,  and  kept  her  vow  so  faithfully, 
to  love,  honor,  and  obey. 

When  the  sun  rose,  the  wretched  man  awoke  from  his  deep 
and  dreamless  sleep  ;  and  as  his  eye  fell  on  that  innocent,  sweet 
face,  calm  as  an  infant's,  and  serene,  though  full  of  deep  thoughts 
and  pure  affections,  he  did  start,  he  did  shudder,  for  one  sec 
ond's  space — perhaps  for  that  fleeting  point  of  time,  he  doubt 
ed.  But  if  it  were  so,  he  nerved  himself  again  almost  without 
an  effort,  disengaged  himself  gently  from  the  embrace  of  her 
entwined  arms,  with  something  that  sounded  like  a  smothered 
curse,  and  stalked  away  in  sullen  gloom,  leaving  her  buried  in 
her  last  natural  slumber. 

Two  hours  had,  perhaps,  gone  over,  and  the  morning  had 
come  out  bright  and  glorious  after  the  midnight  storm,  the  at 
mosphere  was  clear  and  breezy,  the  skies  pure  as  crystal,  and 
the  glad  sunshine  glanced  and  twinkled  with  ten  thousand  gay 
reflections  in  the  diamond  rain-drops  which  still  gemmed  every 
blade  of  grass,  and  glistened  in  every  floweret's  cup,  when  The 
resa's  light  step  was  heard  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  her 
sweet  voice  inquiring  where  she  should  find  Master  St.  Aubyn. 

"  I  am  here,"  answered  his  deep  voice,  which  for  the  mo 
ment  he  made  an  effort  to  inflect  graciously,  and  with  the  word 
he  made  his  appearance  from  the  door  of  his  study,  booted  to 
the  mid-thigh,  and  spurred;  with  a  long,  heavv  rapier  at  his 
side,  and  a  stout  dagger  counterbalancing  it  in  the  other  side 
of  his  girdle.  He  was  dressed  in  a  full  suit  of  plain,  black  vel 
vet,  without  any  ornament  or  embroidery  ;  and  whether  it  was 
that  the  contrast  made  him  look  paler,  or  that  the  horror  of 
what  he  was  about  to  do,  though  insufficient  to  turn  his  hard 
heart,  had  sufficed  to  blanch  his  cheek  and  lips,  I  know  not, 
••••I.  28 


326  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

but,  as  she  saw  his  face,  Theresa  started  as  if  she  had  seen  a 
ghost. 

"  How  pale  you  look,  Jasper,"  she  said  earnestly  ;  "  are  you 
ill  at  ease,  dearest,  or  anxious  about  me  ?  If  it  be  the  last,  vex 
not  yourself,  I  pray  you ;  for  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid,  either 
of  the  fatigue  or  of  the  voyage.  For  the  rest,"  she  added,  with 
a  bright  smile,  intended  to  reassure  him,  "  I  have  long  wished 
to  see  La  Belle  France,  as  they  call  it ;  and  to  me  the  change 
of  scene,  so  long  as  you  are  with  me,  dearest  Jasper,  will  be 
but  a  change  of  pleasure.  I  hope  I  have  not.  kept  you  wait 
ing.  But  I  could  not  sleep  during  the  night  for  the  thunder, 
and  about  daybreak  I  was  overpowered  by  a  heavy  slumber.  I 
did  not  even  hear  you  leave  me." 

"  I  saw  that  you  slept  heavily,  my  own  love,"  he  made  an 
swer,  "  and  was  careful  not  to  wake  you,  knowing  what  you 
would  have  to  undergo  to-day,  and  wishing  to  let  you  get  all 
the  rest  you  could  before  starting.  But  come,  let  us  go  to  break 
fast.  We  have  little  time  to  lose,  the  horses  will  be  at  the 
door  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Come,  then,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  ready ;"  and  she  took 
his  arm  as  she  spoke,  and  passed,  leaning  on  him,  through  the 
long  suite  of  rooms,  which  now,  for  above  a  year  had  been  her 
home  in  mingled  happiness  and  sorrow.  "  Heigho  !"  she  mur 
mured,  with  a  half  sigh,  "  dear  Widecomb !  dear,  dear  Wide- 
comb,  many  a  happy  hour  have  I  spent  within  your  walls,  and 
it  goes  hard  with  me  to  leave  you.  I  wonder,  shall  I  ever  see 
you  more." 

"  Never,"  replied  the  deep  voice  of  her  husband,  in  so  strange 
a  tone,  that  it  made  her  turn  her  head  and  look  at  him  quickly. 
A  strange,  dark  spasm  had  convulsed  his  face,  and  was  not  yet 
passed  from  it,  when  her  eye  met  his.  She  thought  it  was  the 
effect  of  natural  grief  at  leaving  his  fine  place  —  the  place  of 
his  birth — as  an  outlaw  and  an  exile  ;  and  half-repenting  that 


THE    MURDERER    AND    HIS    VICTIM.  327 

she  had  so  spoken  as  to  excite  his  feelings,  she  hastened  to 
soothe  them,  as  she  thought,  by  a  gayer  and  more  hopeful  word. 

"  Never  heed,  dearest  Jasper,"  she  said,  pressing  his  arm,  on 
which  she  hung,  "  if  we  do  love  old  Widecomb,  there  are  as 
fair  places  elsewhere,  on  the  world's  green  face,  and  if  there 
were  not,  happy  minds  will  aye  find,  or  make  happy  places. 
And  we,  why  spite  of  time  and  tide,  wind  and  weather,  we  will 
be  happy,  Jasper.  And  I  doubt  not  a  moment,  that  we  shall 
yet  live  to  spend  happy  days  once  more  in  Widecomb." 

"  I  fear,  never,"  replied  the  young  man,  solemnly.  It  was  a 
singular  feeling — he  did  not  repent,  he  did  not  falter  or  shrink 
in  the  least  from  his  murderous  purpose  ;  but,  for  his  life,  he 
could  not  give  her  a  hope,  he  could  not  say  a  word  to  cheer 
her,  or  deceive  her,  further  than  he  was  compelled  to  do  in  or 
der  to  carry  out  his  end. 

The  morning  meal  passed  silently  and  sadly ;  for,  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts  to  be  gay,  and  to  make  him  lighter-hearted, 
his  brow  was  clouded,  and  he  would  not  converse  ;  and  she, 
fearing  to  vex  him,  or  to  trespass  on  what  she  believed  to  be  his 
deep  regret  at  leaving  home,  ceased  to  intrude  upon  his  sorrow. 

At  length  he  asked  her,  "  Are  you  ready  ?"  and  as  he  spoke, 
arose  from  the  table. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  always  ready  when  you 
want  me.  And  see,  Jasper,"  she  added,  "  here  are  my  jewels," 
handing  him  a  small  ebony  casket,  "  I  thought  they  might  be 
of  use  to  us,  in  case  of  our  wanting  money ;  and  yet  I  should 
grieve  to  part  with  them,  for  they  are  the  diamonds  you  gave 
me  that  night  we  were  wedded." 

He  took  it  with  a  steady  hand,  and  thrust  it  into  the  bosom 
of  his  dress,  saying,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  You  are  ever  care 
ful,  Theresa.  But  you  have  said  nothing,  I  trust,  to  your  maid 
ens,  of  our  going." 

"  Surely  not,  Jasper,  they  believe  I  am  going  but  for  a  morn- 


328  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

ing's  ride.  Do  you  not  see  that  I  have  got  on  my  new  habit7 
You  have  not  paid  me  one  compliment  on  it,  sir.  I  think  you 
might  at  least  have  told  me  that  I  looked  pretty  in  it.  I  know 
the  day  when  you  would  have  done  so,  without  my  begging  it." 

"  Is  that  meant  for  a  reproach,  Theresa  ?"  he  said,  gloomily, 
"  because  — " 

"  A  reproach,  Jasper,"  she  interrupted  him  quickly,  "  how 
little  you  understand  poor  me  !  I  hoped,  by  my  silly  prattle,  to 
win  you  from  your  sorrow  at  leaving  all  that  you  love'so  dearly. 
But  I  will  be  silent — " 

"  Do  so,  I  pray  you,  for  the  moment." 

And  without  further  words,  he  led  her  down  the  steps  of  the 
terrace,  and  helped  her  to  mount  her  palfrey,  a  beautiful,  slight, 
high-bred  thing,  admirably  fitted  to  carry  a  lady  round  the  trim 
rides  of  a  park,  but  so  entirely  deficient  in  bone,  strength,  and 
sinew,  that  no  animal  could  be  conceived  less  capable  of  endu 
ring  any  continuous  fatigue,  or  even  of  making  any  one  strong 
and  sustained  exertion.  Then  he  sprung  to  the  back  of  his 
own  noble  horse,  a  tall,  powerful,  thorough-bred  hunter,  of  about 
sixteen  hands  in  height,  with  bone  and  muscle  to  match,  capa 
ble,  as  it  would  appear,  of  carrying  a  man-at-arms  in  full  har 
ness  through  a  long  march  or  a  pitched  battle. 

Just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  he  observed  that  one 
of  his  dogs,  a  favorite  greyhound,  was  loose,  and  about  to  fol 
low  him,  when  he  commanded  him  to  be  taken  up  instantly, 
rating  the  man  who  had  held  the  horses  very  harshly,  and 
cursing  him  soundly  for  disobeying  his  orders. 

Then,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  secure  against  the  animal's 
following  him,  he  turned  his  horse's  head  to  the  right  hand, 
toward  the  great  hills  to  the  westward,  saying  aloud,  so  that  all 
the  bystanders  could  hear  him — 

"  Well,  lady  fair,  since  we  are  only  going  for  a  pleasure-ride, 
suppose  we  go  up  toward  the  great  deer-park  in  the  forest.  By 


THE    DEPARTURE.  329 

the  way,"  he  added,  turning  in  his  saddle,  to  the  old  steward, 
who  was  standing  on  the  terrace,  "  I  desired  Haggerston,  the 
horse-dealer,  to  meet  me  here  at  noon,  about  a  hunter  he  wants 
to  sell  me.  If  I  should  not  be  back,  give  him  some  dinner,  and 
detain  him  until  I  return.  I  shall  not  be  late,  for  I  fancy  my 
lady  will  not  care  to  ride  very  far." 

"  Do  n't  be  too  sure  of  that,  Jasper,"  she  replied,  with  an 
arch  smile,  thinking  to  aid  him  in  his  project.  "  It  is  so  long 
since  I  have  ridden  out  with  you,  that  I  may  wish  to  make  a 
day  of  it.  Come,  let  us  start." 

And  she  gave  her  jennet  its  head,  and  cantered  lightly  away 
over  the  green,  her  husband  following  at  a  trot  of  his  powerful 
hunter ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  both  hidden  from  the 
eyes  of  the  servants,  among  the  clumps  of  forest-trees  and  the 
dense  thickets  of  the  chase. 

At  something  more  than  three  miles'  distance  from  Wide- 
comb  house,  to  the  westward,  there  is  a  pass  in  the  hills,  where 
a  bridle-road  crosses  the  channel  of  the  large  brook,  which  I 
have  named  so  often,  and  which,  at  a  point  far  lower  down,  was 
the  scene  of  Jasper's  ill-omened  introduction  to  Theresa  Allan. 

This  bridle-road,  leading  from  the  sparse  settlements  on  Dart 
moor  to  the  nearest  point  of  the  seacoast,  was  a  rough,  danger 
ous  track,  little  frequented  except  by  the  smugglers  and  poach 
ers  of  that  region,  and  lay,  for  the  most  part,  considerably  be 
low  the  level  of  the  surrounding  country,  between  wooded  hills, 
or  walls  of  dark,  gray  rock. 

The  point  at  which  it  crosses  the  stream  is  singularly  wild 
and  romantic,  for  the  road  and  the  river  both  are  walled  by 
sheer  precipices  of  gray,  shattered,  limestone  rock,  nearly  two 
hundred  feet  in  height,  perfectly  barren,  bare,  and  treeless,  ex 
cept  on  the  summits,  which  are  covered  with  heather  and  low 
stunted  shrubbery. 

The  river  itself,  immediately  above  the  ford,  by  which  the 
28* 


330  JASPER    ST.    ATJBTN. 

road  passes  it,  descends  by  a  flight  of  rocky  steps,  or  irregular, 
slielvy  rapids,  above  a  hundred  feet  within  three  times  as  many 
yards,  and  then  spreads  out  into  a  broad,  open  pool,  where  its 
waters,  not  ordinarily  above  three  feet  deep,  glance  rapidly, 
still  and  unbroken,  over  a  level  pavement  of  smooth  stone,  al 
most  as  slippery  as  ice.  Scarce  twenty  yards  below  this,  there 
is  an  abrupt  pitch  of  sixty  feet  in  perpendicular  height,  over 
which  the  river  rushes  at  all  times  in  a  loud,  foaming  water 
fall,  but  after  storms  among  the  hills,  in  a  tremendous  roaring 
cataract. 

The  ford  is  never  a  safe  one,  owing  to  the  insecure  foothold 
afforded  by  the  slippery  limestone,  but  when  the  river  is  in 
flood,  no  one  in  his  senses  would  dream  of  crossing  it. 

Yet  it  was  by  this  road  that  Jasper  had  persuaded  his  young 
wife  that  they  could  alone  hope  to  escape  with  any  chance  of 
safety,  and  to  this  point  he  was  leading  her.  And  she,  though 
she  knew  the  pass,  and  all  its  perils,  resolute  to  accompany  him 
through  life,  and  if  need  should  be,  to  death  itself,  rode  on 
ward  with  him,  cheerful  and  apparently  fearless. 

They  reached  its  brink,  and  the  spectacle  it  afforded,  was, 
indeed,  fearful.  The  river  swollen  by  the  rains  of  the  past 
night,  though,  like  all  mountain  torrents,  rising  and  falling  rap 
idly,  it  was  already  subsiding,  came  down  from  the  moors  with 
an  arrowy  rush,  clear  and  transparent  as  glass,  yet  deep  in  col 
or  as  the  rich  brown  cairn-gorm.  The  shelvy  rapids  above  the 
ford  were  one  sheet  of  snow-white  foam,  and  in  the  ford  itself 
the  foam-flakes  wheeled  round  and  round,  as  in  a  huge,  boiling 
caldron,  while  below  it  the  roar  of  the  cataract  was  louder  than 
the  loudest  thunder,  and  the  sjpray  rolling  upward  from  the 
whirlpool  beneath,  clung  to  the  craigs  above  in  mist-wreaths  so 
dense  that  their  summits  were  invisible. 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Theresa,  turning  deadly  pale,  as  she 
looked  on  the  fearful  pool.  "  We  are  lost.  It  is  impossible." 


THE    DANGEROUS    FORD.  331 

"  By  Heaven  !"  he  answered,  impetuously,  "  I  must  pass  it, 
or  stay  and  be  hanged.  You  can  do  as  you  will,  Theresa." 

"  But  is  it  possible  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  is.  Do  you  think  I  would  lead  you  into  cer 
tain  death  ?  But  see,  I  will  ride  across  and  return,  that  you 
may  see  how  easy  it  is,  to  a  brave  heart  and  a  cool  hand." 

And,  confident  in  the  strength  of  his  horse  and  in  his  own 
splendid  horsemanship,  he  plunged  in  dauntlessly,  and  keeping 
up  stream  near  to  the  foot  of  the  upper  rapids,  struggled  through 
it,  and  returned  to  her  without  much  difficulty,  though  the  wa 
ter  rose  above  the  belly  of  his  horse. 

He  heard,  however,  that  a  fresh  storm  was  rattling  and  roar 
ing,  even  now,  among  the  hills  above,  and  he  knew  by  that  sign 
that  a  fresh  torrent  was  even  now  speeding  its  way  down  the 
chasm. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost — it  was  now  or  never.  He 
cast  an  eager  glance  around  —  a  glance  that  read  and  marked 
everything — as  he  came  to  land  ;  save  only  Theresa,  there  was 
not  a  human  being  within  sight. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  there  is  no  danger." 

"  I  see,"  she  answered  merrily.  "  Forgive  me  for  being 
such  a  little  coward.  But  you  will  lead  Rosabella,  won't  you, 
Jasper  ?" 

"  Surely,"  he  answered.     "  Come." 

And  catching  the  curb-rein  of  the  pony  with  his  left  hand, 
and  guiding  his  own  horse  with  his  right,  holding  his  heavy- 
loaded  hunting-whip  between  his  teeth,  he  led  her  down  into 
the  foaming  waters,  so  that  her  palfrey  was  between  himself 
and  the  cataract. 

It  was  hard  work,  and  a  fearful  struggle  for  that  slender, 
light-limbed  palfrey  to  stem  that  swollen  river ;  and  the  long 
skirt  of  Theresa's  dress,  holding  the  water,  dragged  the  strug 
gling  animal  down  toward  the  waterfall.  Still,  despite  every 


332  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

disadvantage,  it  would  have  battled  to  the  other  side,  had  fail- 
play  been  given  it. 

But  when  they  reached  the  very  deepest  and  most  turbulent 
part  of  the  pool,  under  pretence  of  aiding  it,  Jasper  lifted  the 
jennet's  fore-legs,  by  dint  of  the  strong,  sharp  curb,  clear  off 
the  bottom.  The  swollen  stream  came  down  with  a  heavier 
swirl,  its  hind  legs  were  swept  from  under  it,  in  an  instant,  and 
with  a  piercing  scream  of  agony  and  terror,  the  palfrey  was 
whirled  over  the  brink  of  the  fall. 

But,  as  it  fell,  unsuspicious  of  her  husband's  horrible  intent, 
the  wretched  girl  freed  her  foot  from  the  stirrup,  and  throwing 
herself  over  to  the  right  hand,  with  a  wild  cry,  "  Save  me  ! 
save  me,  my  God  !  save  me,  Jasper  !"  caught  hold  of  his  velvet 
doublet  with  both  hands,  and  clung  to  him  with  the  tenacious 
grasp  of  the  death-struggle. 

Even  then — even  then,  had  he  relented,  one  touch  of  the 
spur  would  have  carried  his  noble  horse  clear  through  the  peril. 

But  no  !  the  instant  her  horse  fell,  he  shifted  his  reins  to  the 
left  hand,  arid  grasped  his  whip  firmly  in  the  right ;  and  now, 
with  a  face  of  more  than  fiendish  horror,  pale,  comprest,  ghastly, 
yet  grim  and  resolute  as  death,  he  reared  his  hand  on  high,  and 
poised  the  deadly  weapon. 

Then,  even  then,  her  soft  blue  eyes  met  his,  full,  in  that  mo 
ment  of  unutterable  terror,  of  hope  and  love,  even  then  over 
powering  agony.  She  met  his  eyes,  glaring  with  wolfish  fury; 
she  saw  his  lifted  hand,  and  even  then  would  have  saved  his 
soul  that  guilt. 

"  Oh  no  !"  she  cried,  "  oh  no  !  I  will  let  go  —  I  will  drown, 
if  you  wish  it ;  I  will,  I  will,  indeed  !  O  God  !  do  not  you — 
do  not  you — kill  me,  Jasper." 

And  even  as  she  spoke,  she  relaxed  her  hold,  and  suffered 
herself  to  glide  down  into  the  torrent ;  but  it  was  all  too  late  — 
the  furious  blow  was  dealt — with  that  appalling  sound,  that 


THE    MURDER.  333 

soft,  dead,  crushing  plash,  it  smote  her  full  between  those 
lovely  eyes. 

"0  God! — my  God!  —  forgive  —  Jasp.er  !  Jasper!"  —  and 
she  plunged  deep  into  the  pool ;  but  as  the  waters  swept  her 
over  the  cataract's  verge,  they  raised  her  corpse  erect ;  and  its 
dead  face  met  his,  with  the  eyes  glaring  on  his  own  yet  wide 
open,  and  the  dread,  gory  spot  between  them,  as  he  had  seen 
it  in  his  vision  years  before. 

He  stood,  motionless,  reining  his  charger  in  the  middle  of 
the  raging  current,  unmindful  of  his  peril,  gazing,  horror-strick 
en,  on  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  her  last — his  brain  reeled, 
he  was  sick  at  heart. 

A  wild,  piercing  shout,  almost  too  shrill  to  be  human,  aroused 
him  from  his  trance  of  terror.  He  looked  upward  almost  un 
consciously,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  mist  had  been  drawn 
up  like  a  curtain,  and  that  a  man  in  dark  garb  stood  gazing  on 
him  from  the  summit  of  the  rocks. 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  but  for  a  second's  space.  The  fog 
closed  in  thicker  again  than  before,  the  torrent  came  roaring 
down  in  fiercer,  madder  flood,  and  wheeling  his  horse  round, 
and  spurring  him  furiously,  it  was  all  that  Jasper  St.  Aubyn 
could  do,  by  dint  of  hand  and  foot,  and  as  iron  a  heart  as  ever 
man  possessed,  to  avoid  following  his  victim  to  her  watery 
grave. 

Once  safe,  he  cast  one  last  glance  to  the  rocks,  to  the  river, 
but  he  saw,  heard  nothing.  He  whirled  the  bloody  whip  over 
the  falls,  plunged  his  spurs,  rowel-deep,  into  the  horse's  sides, 
and  with  hell  in  his  heart,  he  galloped,  like  one  pursued  by  the 
furies  of  the  slain,  back,  alone,  to  Widecomb. 


334  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    VENGEANCE. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream, 
The  wanderer  was  returned." — BTROJT. 

IT  was  not  yet  high  noon,  when,  wet  from  spur  to  shoulder 
with  mud  and  spray,  bloody  with  spurring,  spotted  from  head 
to  heel  with  gory  foam-flakes  from  his  jaded  horse's  wide-dis 
tended  jaws,  and  quivering  nostrils,  bareheaded,  pale  as  death, 
and  hoarse  with  shouting,  Jasper  St.  Aubyn  galloped  frantically 
up  to  the  terrace-steps  of  Widecomb  house  ;  and  springing  to 
the  ground,  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  headlong  had  he  not 
been  caught  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the  serving-men,  who  came 
running  down  the  stone  stairs  to  assist  him. 

As  soon  as  he  could  collect  breath  to  speak,  "  Call  all !"  he 
cried,  "  call  all  !  Ring  the  great  bell,  call  all  —  get  ladders, 
ropes  —  run — ride  —  she  is  gone  —  she  is  lost — swept  over  the 
black  falls  at  Hawkshurt !  O  God  !  O  God !"  and  he  fell,  as  it 
seemed,  senseless  to  the  earth. 

Acting — sheer  acting,  all! 

They  raised  him,  and  carried  him  up  stairs,  and  laid  him  on 
the  bed  —  on  her  bed — the  bed  whereon  he  had  kissed  her  lips 
last  night,  and  clasped  her  lovely  form  which  was  now  haply 
entwined  in  the  loathsome  coils  of  the  slimy  mud-eels. 

He  shuddered.  He  could  not  endure  it.  He  opened  his 
eyes  again,  and  feigning  to  recover  his  senses,  chid  the  men 
from  his  presence,  and  again  commanded,  so  peremptorily,  that 
none  dare  disobey  him,  that  every  servant — man,  woman,  maid 
or  boy — should  begone  to  the  place  he  had  named,  nor  return 
till  they  brought  back  his  lost  angel's  body. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    VISITANT.  335 

They  believed  that  he  was  mad ;  but  mad  or  sane,  his  anger 
was  so  terrible  at  all  times,  and  now  so  fierce,  so  frantic  and 
appalling,  that  none  dared  to  gainsay  him. 

Within  half  an  hour  after  his  return,  save  himself  there  was 
not  a  human  being  left  within  the  walls  of  Widecomb  manor. 

Then  he  arose  and  descended  slowly,  but  with  a  firm  foot 
and  unchanged  brow,  into  the  great  library  of  the  hall.  It  was 
a  vast,  gloomy,  oblong  chamber,  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in 
length,  wainscoted  and  shelved  with  old  black-oak,  and  dimly 
lighted  by  a  range  of  narrow  windows,  with  dark-stained  glass 
and  heavily- wrought  stone  mullions. 

There  was  a  dull  wood-fire  smouldering  under  the  yawning 
arch  of  the  chimney-piece,  and  in  front  of  the  fire  stood  an  old 
oaken-table,  and  a  huge  leathern  arm-chair. 

Into  this  Jasper  cast  himself,  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
which  he  had  left  open,  in  the  absence  of  his  mind.  For 
nearly  an  hour  he  sat  there  without  moving  hand  or  foot,  gazing 
gloomily  at  the  fire.  But,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  he  started, 
and  seemed  to  recollect  himself,  opened  the  drawer  of  the  wri 
ting-table,  and  took  out  of  it  the  record  of  his  wretched  victim's 
marriage. 

He  read  it  carefully,  over  and  over  again,  and  then  crushed 
it  in  his  hand,  saying,  "  Well,  all  is  safe  now,  THANK  GOD  !" 
Yes,  he  thanked  God  for  the  success  of  the  murder  he  had 
done !  "  But  here  goes  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure." 

And  with  the  word  he  was  about  to  cast  the  paper  which  he 
held  into  the  ashes,  when  the  hand  of  a  man,  who  had  entered 
the  room  and  walked  up  to  him  with  no  very  silent  or  stealthy 
step,  while  he  was  engrossed  too  deeply  by  his  own  guilty 
thoughts  to  mark  very  certainly  anything  that  might  occur 
without,  was  laid  with  a  grip  like  that  of  an  iron  vice  upon  his 
shoulder. 

He  started  and  turned  round  ;  but  as  he  did  so,  the  other  hand 


336  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

of  the  stranger  seized  his  right  hand  which  held  the  marriage 
record,  grasping  it  right  across  the  knuckles,  and  crushed  it  to 
gether  by  an  action  so  powerful  and  irresistible,  that  the  fingers 
involuntarily  opened,  and  the  fatal  document  fell  to  the  ground. 

Instantly  the  man  cast  Jasper  off  with  a  violent  jerk  which 
sent  him  to  a  distance  of  some  three  or  four  yards,  stooped, 
gathered  up  the  paper,  thrust  it  into  his  bosom,  and  then  fold 
ing  his  ai-ms  across  his  stalwart  breast,  stood  quietly  confront 
ing  the  murderer,  but  with  the  quietude  of  the  expectant  gladi 
ator. 

Jasper  stared  at  the  swarthy,  sun-burnt  face,  the  coal-black 
hair  clipped  short  upon  the  brow,  the  flashing  eyes,  that  pierced 
him  like  a  sword.  He  knew  the  face — he  almost  shuddered 
at  the  knowledge — yet,  for  his  life,  he  could  not  call  to  mind 
where  or  when  he  met  him. 

But  he  stared  only  for  an  instant ;  insulted  —  outraged — he, 
in  his  own  house  !  His  ready  sword  was  in  his  hand  forthwith 

—  the  stranger  was  armed  likewise  with  a  long  broadsword  and 
a  two-edged  dagger,  and  heavy  pistols  at  his   girdle  ;  yet  he 
moved  not,  nor  made  the  slightest  movement  to  put  himself 'on 
the  defensive. 

"  Draw,  dog !"  cried  Jasper,  furiously.  "  Draw  and  defend 
yourself,  or  I  will  slay  you  where  you  stand." 

"  Hold  !"  replied  the  other  steadily.     "  There  is  time  enough 

—  I  will  not  balk  you.     Look  at  me  !  —  do  you  not  know  me  ?" 
"  Know  you  ? — not  I  ;  by  Heaven  !  some  rascal  smuggler,  I 

trow  —  come  to  rob  while  the  house  is  in  confusion!  but  you 
have  reckoned  without  your  host  this  time.  You  leave  not  this 
room  alive." 

"  That  as  it  may  be,"  said  the  other,  coolly.  "  I  have  looked 
death  in  the  face  too  often  to  dread  much  the  meeting ;  but  ere 
I  die,  I  have  some  work  to  do.  So  you  do  not  know  me  ?" 

"  Not  a  whit,  I  tell  you." 


THE    AVENGER.  337 

"  Then  is  the  luck  mine,  for  I  know  you  right  well,  young  sir !" 

"  And  for  whom  do  you  know  me  !" 

"  For  a  most  accursed  villain  always  !"  the  man  answered  ; 
•*  two  hours  since,  for  Theresa  Allan's  murderer !  and  now, 
thanks  to  this  paper,  which,  please  God,  I  shall  keep,  for  The 
resa  Allan's — husband  !" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  and  at  the 
same  time  drew  and  cocked,  at  a  single  motion,  a  pistol  with 
each  hand. 

"  You  know  too  much — you  know  too  much!"  cried  Jasper, 
furious  but  undaunted.  "  One  of  us  two  must  die,  ere  either 
leaves  this  room." 

"  It  was  for  that  end  I  came  hither  !  Look  at  me  now,  and 
know  Denzil  Bras-de-fer — Theresa  Allan's  cousin  !  your  wife's 
rejected  lover  once,  and  now  —  your  wife's  avenger!" 

"  Away !   I  will  not  fight  you  !" 

"  Then,  coward,  with  my  own  hands  will  I  hang  you  on  the 
oak  tree  before  your  own  door  ;  and  on  your  breast  I  will  pin 
this  paper,  and  under  it  will  write,  •  HER  MURDERER,  taken  in 
the  fact,  tried,  condemned,  executed  by  me, 

DENZIL  BRAS-DE-FER.'" 

"  Never !" 

"  Take  up  your  pistols,  then  —  they  lie  there  tin  the  table. 
We  will  turn,  back  to  back,  and  walk  each  to  his  own  end  of 
the  room,  then  turn  and  fire — if  that  do  not  the  work,  let  the 
sword  finish  it." 

"  Amen !"  said  St.  Aubyn,  u  and  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
your  soul,  for  I  will  send  it  to  your  cousin  in  five  minutes." 

"  And  may  the  fiend  of  hell  have  yours  —  as  he  will,  if  there 
be  either  fiend  or  God.  Are  you  ready  ?" 

"  Ay." 

"  Then  off  with  you,  and  when  you  reach  the  wall,  turn  and 
fire." 

29 


338  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  away,  and  walked  slowly  and 
deliberately  with  measured  strides  toward  the  door  by  which 
he  had  entered. 

Before  he  had  taken  six  steps,  however,  a  bullet  whistled 
past  his  ear,  cutting  a  lock  of  his  hair  in  its  passage,  and  re 
bounded  from  the  wall,  flattened  at  his  feet.  Jasper  had  turned 
at  once,  and  fired  at  him  with  deliberate  aim. 

"  Ha !  double  murderer !  die  in  your  treason  !"  and  the  sailor 
leveled  his  pistol  in  turn,  and  pulled  the  trigger ;  had  it  gone 
off,  Jasper  St.  Aubyri's  days  were  ended  then  and  there ;  but  no 
flash  followed  the  sparks  from  the  flint — and  he  cast  the  use 
less  weapon  from  him. 

At  once  they  both  raised  their  second  pistol,  and  again  Jas 
per's  was  discharged  with  a  quick,  sharp  report ;  and  almost 
simultaneously  with  a  crack,  a  dull  sound,  as  of  a  blow,  fol 
lowed  it ;  and  he  knew  that  his  ball  had  taken  effect  on  his 
enemy. 

Again  Denzil's  pistol  failed  him  ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time 
Jasper  observed  that  the  seaman's  clothes  were  soaked  with 
water.  He  had  swam  that  rapid  stream,  and  followed  his  be 
loved  Theresa's  murderer,  almost  with  the  speed  of  the  stout 
horse  that  bore  him  home. 

Not  a  muscle  of  Denzil's  face  moved,  not  a  sinew  of  his 
frame  quivered,  yet  he  was  shot  through  the  body,  mortally — 
and  he  knew  it. 

"  Swords  !"  he  cried,  "  swords  !" 

And  bounding  forward,  he  met  the  youth  midway,  and  at  the 
first  collision,  sparks  flew  from  the  well-tempered  blades. 

It  was  no  even  conflict,  no  trial  of  skill  —  three  deadly 
passes  of  the  sailor,  as  straight  and  almost  as  swift  as  light 
ning,  with  a  blade  so  strong,  and  a  wrist  so  adamantine,  that  no 
slight  of  Jasper's  could  divert  them,  were  sent  home  in  tierce 
— one  in  his  throat,  "  That  for  your  lie  !"  shouted  Denzil ;  a 


A    SPEEDY    RETRIBUTION.  339 

second  in  the  sword-arm,  "  that  for  your  coward  blow  !"  a  third, 
which  clove  his  heart  to  the  very  cavity,  "  that  for  your  life  !" 

Ten  seconds  did  not  pass,  from  the  first  crossing  of  their 
blades  until  Jasper  lay  dead  upon  the  floor,  flooding  his  own 
hearth-stone  with  his  life-blood. 

Denzil  leaned  on  his  avenging  blade,  and  looked  down  upon 
the  dead. 

"  It  is  done  !  it  is  done  just  in  time  !  But  just — for  I  am 
sped  likewise.  May  the  great  God  have  mercy  on  me,  and 
pardon  me  my  sins,  as  I  did  this  thing  not  in  hatred,  but  in 
justice  and  in  honor  !  Ah — I  am  sick  —  sick  !" 

And  he  dropped  down  into  the  arm-chair  in  which  Jasper 
was  sitting  as  he  entered  ;  and  though  he  could  hardly  hold  his 
head  up  for  the  deadly  fairitness,  and  the  reeling  of  his  eyes 
and  brain,  by  a  great  effort  he  drew  out  the  marriage-record 
from  his  breast — Jasper's  ball  had  pierced  it,  and  it  was  dap 
pled  with  his  own  life-blood — and  smoothed  it  out  fairly,  and 
spread  it  on  the  board  before  him. 

Then  he  fell  back,  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  lay  for  a  long 
time  motionless  ;  but  the  slow,  sick  throbbing  of  his  heart 
showed  that  he  was  yet  alive,  though  passing  rapidly  away. 

Once  he  raised  his  dim  eyes,  and  murmured,  "  They  tarry 
— they  tarry  very  long.  I  fear  me,  they  will  come  too  late." 

But  within  ten  minutes  after  he  had  spoken,  the  sound  of  a 
multitude  might  be  heard  approaching,  and  a  quick,  strong,  de 
cided  step  of  one  man  coming  on  before  all  the  rest. 

Within  the  last  few  minutes,  Denzil  had  seemed  to  lose  all 
consciousness  and  power.  He  was,  indeed,  all  but  dead. 

But  at  these  sounds  he  roused  like  a  dying  war-horse  to  the 
trumpet ;  and  as  the  quick  step  crossed  the  threshold,  he  stag 
gered  to  his  feet,  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  cried, 
with  his  old  sonorous  voice  —  it  was  his  last  effort — 

"  Is  that  you,  lieutenant  ?" 


340  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"  Ay,  ay,  captain." 

"Have  you  found  her  ?" 

"  She  is  here,"  said  the  young  seaman,  pointing  with  his 
hand  to  the  corpse,  which  they  were  just  bearing  into  the 
room. 

"  And  he — ha!  ha  !  ha !  ha  ! — he  is  there  !"  and  he  pointed 
with  a  triumphant  wafture  of  his  gory  sword,  toward  Jasper's 
carcass,  and  then,  with  the  blood  spouting  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils,  he  fell  headlong. 

His  officer  raised  him  instantly,  and  as  the  flow  of  blood 
ceased,  he  recovered  his  speech  for  a  moment.  He  pointed  to 
the  gaping  crowd. 

"  Have — have  you — told  them — lieu — lieutenant?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Tell  —  tell  them — 1-let  me  hear  you." 

"  You  see  that  wound  in  her  forehead — you  saw  it  all,  from 
the  first,"  he  said,  to  the  crowd,  who  were  gazing  in  mute  hor 
ror  at  the  scene.  "  I  told  you,  when  I  took  you  to  the  body, 
that  I  saw  her  die,  and  would  tell  you  how  she  died,  when  the 
time  should  come.  The  time  has  come.  He  —  that  man, 
whose  body  lies  there  bleeding,  and  whose  soul  is  now  burning 
in  Tophet,  murdered  her  in  cold  blood — beat  her  brains  out 
with  his  loaded  hunting-whip.  I  —  I,  Hubert  Manvers,  saw 
him  do  it." 

There  was  a  low,  dull  murmur  in  the  crowd,  not  of  dissent 
or  disbelief,  but  of  doubt. 

"  And  who  slew  master  ?"  exclaimed  black  Jem  Alderly, 
coming  doggedly  forward,  "  this  has  got  to  be  answered  for." 

"  It  is  answered  for,  Alderly,"  said  Denzil,  in  a  faint,  but  au 
dible  voice.  "I  did  it — I  slew  him,  as  he  has  slain  me.  I 
am  Denzil  Olifaunt,  whom  men  call  Bras-de-fer.  Do  any  of 
you  chance  to  know  me  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  all  on  us  !  all  on  us  !"  shouted  half  the  room  ;  for 


THE    MARRIAGE-RECORD.  341 

the  frank,  gallant,  bold  young  seaman  had  ever  been  a  general 
favorite.     "  Huzza,  for  Master  Denzil !" 

And  in  spite  of  the  horrors  of  the  scene,  in  spite  of  the  pres 
ence  of  the  dead,  a  loud  cheer  followed. 

"  Hush  !"  he  cried,  "  hush !  this  is  no  time  for  that,  and  no 
place.  I  am  a  dying  man.  There  is  not  five  minutes'  life  in 
me.  Listen  to  me.  Did  any  of  you  ever  hear  me  tell  a  He  ?" 

"  Never  !  never  !" 

"  I  should  scarce,  therefore,  begin  to  do  so  now,  with  heaven 
and  hell  close  before  my  eyes.  Hubert  Manvers  spoke  truly. 
I  also  saw  him  murder  her — murder  his  own  wife — for  such 
she  was  ;  therefore  I  killed  him !"  He  gasped  for  a  moment, 
gathered  his  breath  again,  and  pointing  to  the  table,  "  that  pa 
per,  Hubert — quick — that  paper — read  it  —  I  —  am  going  — 
quick !" 

The  young  man  understood  his  superior's  meaning  in  an  in 
stant,  caught  the  paper  from  the  table,  beckoned  two  or  three 
of  the  older  men  about  him,  among  others,  Geoffrey,  the  old 
steward,  and  i;ead  aloud  the  record  of  the  unhappy  girl's  mar 
riage. 

At  this  moment  the  young  vicar  of  Widecomb  entered  the 
room,  and  his  eyes  falling  on  the  paper,  "  That  is  my  father's 
handwriting,"  he  cried  ;  "  this  is  a  missing  leaf  of  my  church- 
register  !" 

"Was  she  not — was  she  not — his — wife?"  cried  Bras-de 
fer,  raising  himself  feebly  on  his  elbow,  and  gazing  with  his 
whole  soul  in  his  dying  eyes  at  the  youthful  vicar,  and  at  the 
horror-stricken  circle. 

"  She  was  —  she  was  assuredly,  his  lawful  wife,  and  such  I 
will  uphold  her,"  said  the  young  man,  solemnly.  "  Her  fame 
shall  suffer  no  wrong  any  longer — her  soul,  I  trust,  is  with  her 
God  already — for  she  was  innocent,  and  good,  and  humble,  as 
she  was  lovely  and  loving.  Peace  be  with  her." 

29* 


342  JASPER    ST.    AUBYN. 

"Poor,  poor  lady  !"  cried  several  of  the  girls  who  were  pres 
ent,  heart-stricken,  at  the  thought  of  their  own  past  conduct, 
and  of  her  unvarying  sweetness.  "  Poor,  poor  lady !" 

"Hubert — Hubert — I  —  I  have  cleared  her — char — her 
character,  I  have  avenged  her  death ;  lay  me  beside  her.  In 
ten — ten  minutes  I  shall  be  —  God — bless  you,  Hubert — with 
Theresa!  A  —  men!" 

He  was  dead.  He  had  died  in  his  duty — which  was  jus 
tice — truth — vengeance  ! 


Innou  in  tije 


OR, 


THE  PRICE  OE  BLOOD, 


CrnMtinti  nf  tjjB  jlnrtlj. 


1745. 


THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 


PART    I. 

"  But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall, 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall ; 
And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light, 
That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 
And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 
'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower." — PAIIISINA. 

Lv  that  remote  and  romantic  district  of  old  England,  known 
in  the  north  country  as  Milbourne  forest,  which  lies  close  on 
.the  frontier  of  the  three  counties,  Cumberland,  Westmoreland, 
and  Yorkshire,  there  stood,  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury,  a  fine  old  baronial  hall,  surrounded  by  a  grand,  wild  chase, 
of  which  the  deep  and  solemn  woods  alone  remain  to  attest  its 
olden  magnificence.  About  equi-distant  from  Appleby  and  Pen- 
rith,  both  of  which  towns  were  divided  from  it.  by  a  space 
above  ten  miles  in  length,  of  wild,  open  moors,  and  huge,  heath- 
clad  fells,  as  they  are  called  in  that  part  of  the  world,  the 
manor-house  stood  in  a  deep,  sequestered  lap  of  land,  bordered 
on  the  south  by  a  beautiful,  rapid  trout-stream  —  one  of  the  trib 
utaries  of  the  Eden  —  and  commanded  a  striking  view  of  the 
huge,  purple  masses  of  Cross  Fell  to  the  north-eastward. 


346  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD  . 

The  little  hamlet  of  Ousby  adjoining  the  park  on  the  north 
ern  side,  and  the  village  of  Edenhall,  about  five  miles  distant 
to  the  westward,  were  the  only  human  habitations  in  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  and  as  neither  of  these  small  places  contained  any 
persons  above  the  rank  of  peasants  or  small  farmers,  with  the 
exception  of  their  respective  vicars,  it  will  be  readily  believed 
that  they  contributed  little  to  the  society  of  the  proprietors  of 
"Vernon  in  the  Vale  —  a  family  of  high  and  ancient  lineage, 
from  whose  name  their  ancestral  seat  had  derived  its  appel 
lation. 

Even  at  this  day,  that  is  a  remote  and  wild  region,  traversed 
by  no  great  road,  and,  as  it  lies  a  little  to  the  eastward  of  that 
beautiful  and  much-visited  tract,  known  as  the  Lake  country, 
seldom  traversed  except  by  the  foot  of  the  grouse-shooter,  the 
geologist,  or  the  stray  lover  of  the  picturesque — the  true  "  nym- 
pharum  fugientum'  amator"  of  the  nineteenth  century.  If  such 
is  the  case  even  now,  when  all  England  is  intersected  by  a 
network  of  iron  roads,  and  sped  across  in  all  directions  with 
almost  winged  speed  by  the  marvellous  power  of  machinery, 
much  more  was  it  so  a  hundred  years  since,  when  travelling 
was  slow  and  tedious  —  when  even  the  great  highroads  were 
difficult  and  dangerous,  and  above  all  when  it  was  the  fashion 
of  the  day  for  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  great,  the  rich,  and  the  no 
ble  of  the  land  to  dwell  permanently  in  the  precincts  of  the 
court,  and  to  regard  a  sojourn  on  their  estates  in  the  country 
much  as  a  Russian  would  now  look  upon  an  exile  to  Siberia. 

Up  to  the  period  of  the  great  civil  war  of  1642,  the  nobles 
and  gentry  of  England  had  resided  constantly  on  their  estates 
during  the  chief  part  of  the  year,  among  their  tenantry  parta 
king  in  their  rustic  sports,  and  possessing  their  affections,  and 
visiting  the  metropolis  only  for  a  short  period,  much  as  is  the 
case  at  present,  during  the  session  of  the  houses  of  parliament. 

After  the  Restoration,  however,  the  profligate  and  worthless 


A    CENTURY    AGO.  347 

son  of  the  martyred  king,  with  his  vicious  companions,  intro 
duced,  among  other  continental  habits,  the  fashion  of  residing 
permanently  in  the  vicinity  of  the  court,  and  visiting  the  coun 
try  only  at  long  and  uncertain  intervals.  During  the  succes 
sive  reigns  of  James  the  Second,  the  Dutch  William,  Anne, 
and  the  first  two  monarchs  of  the  house  of  Brunswick,  this 
foolish  and  injurious  fashion  continued  to  prevail ;  and  it  was 
perhaps  as  much,  as  to  any  other  cause,  owing  to  the  simple 
habits,  the  love  of  rural  life,  and  the  quiet  country-gentleman 
tastes  of  the  third  tjeorge,  that  the  aristocracy  of  England  were 
again  seen  to  consult,  alike  their  dignity,  their  interest,  and  their 
duty,  by  dwelling  principally  among  their  dependants  and  con 
sidering  their  estates  as  their  home. 

A  century  ago,  however,  this  was  very  far  from  being  the 
case  ;  the  country-gentlemen  were  illiterate  and  coarse-man 
nered,  hunters  of  foxes  and  swillers  of  punch,  of  whom  Squire 
Western  may  be  regarded  as  the  type,  while  the  rudeness  of 
the  resident  clergy  is  scarcely  exaggerated  in  the  well-known 
portrait  of  Parson  Adams. 

If  a  nobleman,  in  those  days,  retired  to  his  country-seat,  it 
was,  as  they  now-a-days  retreat  to  the  Continent,  to  economize 
the  relics  of  their  damaged  fortunes,  and  to  languish  for  the 
hour  of  revisiting  the  fumum  et  opes  strepitumque  Romoe,  at  the 
termination  of  a  long  and  weary  banishment. 

To  this  rule,  as  to  all  others,  there  were,  however,  excep 
tions  ;  and  even  in  that  day  there  were  high-born  and  high-bred 
men,  habitual  dwellers  in  the  country,  doing  their  duty  to  their 
dependants,  and  an  honor  to  their  class,  as  English  gentlemen 
and  landlords. 

The  greater  number  of  these  were,  perhaps,  at  the  time  of 
which  I  write,  of  what  was  then  generally  called  the  old  reli 
gion  ;  for  in  those  days  of  violent  party  strife  and  political  ani 
mosity,  the  Roman  catholic  gentry  were,  for  the  most  part,  out 


348  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

of  favor  with  the  protestant  princes  of  the  house  of  Hanover, 
and  were  supposed  to  be  at  least  wavering  in  their  allegiance 
to  that  dynasty,  if  not  openly  attached  to  the  king  over  the 
water,  who  held  their  own  religious  faith. 

Neglected,  therefore,  if  not  actually  slighted  by  the  powers 
in  London,  obnoxious  to  insult  and  even  violence  from  the  big 
oted  rabble  of  the  metropolis,  and  shunned,  in  some  degree,  by 
their  own  order  of  the  adverse  creed,  it  was  natural  enough 
that  the  nobles  and  gentlemen  attached  to  the  Romish  church, 
who  by  the  way  were  for  the  most  part  from  the  northern  coun 
ties,  should  prefer  living  honored  and  respected  among  their 
tenantry  and  neighbors,  a  great  number  of  whom  were  of  their 
own  belief,  to  enduring  scant  courtesy,  if  not  palpable  affront, 
at  the  court  of  St.  James. 

And  many  were  the  families  throughout  Yorkshire,  Lanca 
shire,  and  Cumberland,  as  well  as  yet  farther  north,  who  had 
set  up  their  household  gods  permanently  on  the  hearth-stones 
of  their  own  baronial  halls,  and  passed  their  days  in  healthful 
sports,  and  their  evenings  in  elegant  and  dignified  seclusion, 
independent  of  the  voice  of  venal  senates,  and  careless  of  the 
prejudices  or  the  partialities  of  foreign  monarchs.  Pity  it  was, 
that  the  injustice  which  was  in  truth  done  them,  nurtured  among 
their  class  a  spirit  of  disaffection,  and  even  of  personal  dislike, 
to  the  first  monarchs  of  the  house  of  Brunswick ;  who  had  in 
deed  no  natural  qualities,  such  as  conciliate  estranged  affections, 
and  who  as  certainly  made  no  artificial  efforts  to  win  the  love 
of  any  portion,  and  of  this  least  of  all,  of  their  new  subjects. 

Pity  it  was,  I  say — not  that  the  first  and  second  Georges 
should  have  failed  to  gain  what  they  would  not  have  valued  if 
possessed,  but  that  the  good,  the  nobly  born,  and  the  high- 
minded  of  their  people  should  have  been  led  to  cherish,  year 
after  year,  a  vain  and  ill-starred  affection  for  their  banished 
princes — princes  of  a  line  the  most  disastrous  to  their  countries 


ENGLAND'S  CATHOLIC  ARISTOCRACY.  349 

their  adherents  and  themselves,  that  ever  sat  upon  the  throne  ; 
the  most  selfish  and  ungrateful  in  prosperity,  and  in  adversity 
the  most  self-seeking,  pertinacious  and  unbending  of  all  sove 
reign  races. 

Peace  to  their  ashes !  for  if  their  crimes  were  great,  their 
sufferings  were  in  proportion,  heavy ;  and  if,  through  them, 
many,  the  best  and  truest  of  their  followers,  fell  on  the  battle 
field — fell  on  the  bloody  scaffold — fell  weary  exiles  upon  a  far 
land's  hated  shore,  they  themselves  likewise  fattened  the  bat 
tle-field,  flooded  the  block,  pined,  far  from  crown  and  country, 
faint  and  forgotten  exiles. 

But  true  it  is,  however  lamentable,  that  in  those  days  —  and 
in  those  only,  for  when  else  was  it  tried  and  found  faithless  — 
the  heart  of  England's  catholic  aristocracy  was  across  the  seas 
with  the  outcast  and  the  stranger,  and  awaited  but  the  blast  of 
a  foreign  trumpet,  ill-omened  harbinger  of  a  native  monarch,  to 
leap  to  arms  against  the  foreign  family  which  filled  the  royal 
chair  of  England. 

And  of  this  aristocracy  the  Vernons,  of  Vernon  in  the  Vale, 
were  neither  the  lowest  nor  the  least  influential  members.  So 
long  as  the  banner  of  a  Stuart  had  floated  to  a  British  breeze, 
so  long  had  their  feet  been  in  the  stirrup,  and  their  hands  on 
the  hilt,  beneath  it. 

Under  the  first  and  second  Charles,  Marston,  and  Naseby, 
and  Dunbar,  and  Worcester — under  the  second  James,  the 
fatal  waters  of  the  Boyne,  and  the  sad  heights  of  Aghrim  — 
under  the  chevalier  St  George,  Burnt  Island,  and  Proud  Pres 
ton,  had  each  and  all  seen  the  Vernon,  of  Vernon  in  the  Vale, 
in  arms  against  the  Parliament,  the  Dutch  usurper,  as  the  Jac 
obites  were  wont  to  term  him,  or  the  intrusive  house  of  Bruns 
wick.  But  though  they  had  died  by  the  sword,  or  by  the  axe, 
in  century  after  century  ;  though  sequestration  and  confiscation 
had  shorn  the  splendor  of  their  fortunes — not  for  that  had  they 

30 


350  •      THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

in  one  iota  abated  from  their  ill-omened  and  almost  insane  ad 
herence  to  the  ill-fated  house  of  Stuart ;  and  not  less  fervently 
did  the  fire  of  that  disastrous  loyalty  burn  in  the  breast  of  Reg 
inald  Yernon,  the  last  survivor  of  the  family,  in  the  year  pre 
ceding  the  unhappy  '45,  than  it  had  burned  in  the  cavalier  of 
the  first  fallen  Charles. 

Nay,  if  anything,  it  burned  more  fervently,  and  with  a  fiercer 
blaze  ;  for  in  his  heart  it  had  been  fed  by  the  blood  of  a  father 
butchered  upon  the  cruel  scaffold,  and  kept  alive  by  the  tears 
of  a  half  heart-broken  mother,  who  had  inculcated  with  his 
first  lessons,  on  his  tender  mind,  the  all-excelling  virtue  of  loy 
alty  to  the  living  king ;  the  all-engrossing  duty  of  vengeance 
for  the  slain  sire.  And  fully,  fatally,  had  Reginald  profited  by 
the  teaching. 

From  a  musing,  melancholy,  moody  boy,  full  of  strange 
fancies  and  unboyish  feelings,  he  had  grown  up  into  a  dark, 
brooding,  gloomy,  but  most  noble-minded  man,  who  seemed 
to  live  for  himself  the  least  of  all  men,  and  within  himself  the 
most. 

His  father  had  perished  after  the  '15  by  all  the  possible  re 
finements  of  barbarity  which  the  law  in  that  day  still  denounced, 
and  popular  opinion  still  sanctioned,  against  those  guilty  of  high 
treason.  His  mother  had  survived — though  existing  much 
after  the  manner  of  that  sainted  queen 

"  Who,  oftener  on  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  lived" — 

long  enough  to  fill  his  young  soul  with  one  all-overpowering 
idea — or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  with  two  moulded  into  one 
—  of  everlasting  faith  to  the  house  of  Stuart,  and  of  undying 
hatred  to  the  house  of  Hanover ;  and  had  then  passed  away  to 
join  the  lost  comrade  of  her  earthly  joys,  leaving  her  son  to 
brood  over  what  he  regarded  as  the  double  murder  of  his  pa- 


REGINALD    VERNON.  351 

rents,  and  to  dream  of  a  dreadful  vengeance,  already  in  his  four 
teenth  year  a  precocious  man  of  full-grown  intellect,  and  a  pre 
mature  rebel  of  stern  and  obstinate  resolution. 

Notwithstanding,  however,  the  almost  continual  preoccupa 
tion  of  his  inner  being  with  this  one  fatal  sentiment,  he  had 
found  time  to  cultivate  not  only  the  faculties  but  the  graces  of 
both  mind  and  body  to  the  utmost,  so  that  there  were,  perhaps, 
at  that  day,  few  men  in  the  kingdom  more  perfectly  finished 
than  Reginald  Vernon,  in  all  accomplishments  of  a  gentleman 
and  cavalier  of  honor.  In  all  sports  and  exercises,  he  was 
pre-eminent  above  all  his  peers,  though,  it  was  observed,  that 
he  ever  seemed  to  partake  in  them  without  pleasure,  and  to  ex 
cel  in  them  without  triumph.  As  a  horseman  and  a  mighty 
hunter,  he  was  unexcelled  in  the  north  country,  the  home  then, 
as  now,  of  sylvan  exercises,  and  the  school  for  skill  in  the 
field-sports.  In  the  use  of  the  sword,  the  masters-at-arms  of 
Italy  arid  Spain  confessed  him  facile  princcps.  As  a  marks 
man  and  mountaineer,  the  land  of  fells  and  tarns,  of  the  red 
deer  and  the  eagle,  proclaimed  him  its  chiefest  glory. 

Add  to  this,  that  he  was  "  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  and  good  one," 
that  the  lore  of  the  old,  and  the  language  of  the  modern  world, 
were  both  familiar  to  him  as  his  mother-tongue  —  that  in  the 
exact  sciences  he  was  no  slender  proficient,  and  that  in  the 
theory,  at  least,  of  the  art  of  war,  he  had  been  pronounced  by 
competent  authorities,  a  stragetist  second  to  none  in  Europe. 

Of  a  fine  person,  and  a  noble  countenance,  although  the  last 
was  colored  by  an  habitual  gloom  which  clouded  the  light  of 
the  expressive  eye,  and  saddened  the  sweet  smile  which  it 
could  not  otherwise  impair — of  a  lineage  which  the  noblest 
could  not  undervalue,  of  wealth  amply  sufficient  for  the  largest 
wishes  —  for  by  great  efforts  of  powerful  friends,  the  attainder 
had  been  reversed,  and  the  confiscation  of  his  paternal  property 
remitted,  while  a  long  minority  had  repaired  the  havoc  of  past 


352  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

sequestrations — what  position  could  be  thought  more  enviahle, 
what  fortune  fairer  than  that  of  Reginald  Vernon. 

Yet,  in  his  own  eyes,  all  these  advantages  were  as  nothing 
—  or,  if  anything,  as  means  only  for  the  attainment  of  an  end, 
and  that  end  vengeance.  Hence,  at  all  hours,  amid  all  occu 
pations,  his  attention  would  at  times  flag,  his  eye  would  become 
abstracted,  his  mind  would  flee  far  away — forward,  ever  for 
ward,  grasping  at  the  intangible,  pursuing  the  unattainable. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  '45,  he  had  arrived  at  his  thirty- 
seventh  year,  and  his  superb  and  unimpaired  manhood  gave 
promise  of  a  long  life  of  utility — for,  despite  his  preoccupation 
and  abstraction,  his  life  was  eminently  useful — and  of  a  green 
old  age  and  honored  exit  from  this  world  of  probation.  By 
the  tenantry,  and  the  poor  of  his  neighborhood,  he  was  more 
than  loved,  he  was  almost  worshipped,  and  justly  was  he  so  es 
teemed,  for  as  proud  as  Lucifer  himself  to  his  superiors,  he 
was  humble  as  the  lowliest  to  his  inferiors,  courteous  to  every 
one,  kind  to  the  deserving,  charitable  to  all  who  needed  it — 
the  truest  and  most  devoted  of  friends — the  most  generous  and 
considerate  of  landlords — the  most  indulgent,  apart  from  weak 
ness,  of  fathers  —  and  of  husbands  the  most  constant,  and  most 
unalterable  in  his  calm,  grave  tenderness.  For  he  had  been 
wedded  some  four  years  to  a  lady  of  rare  beauty,  noble  birth, 
and  exquisite  accomplishment,  although  many  years  his  junior, 
and  even  at  that  day  a  minor.  For  he  was  the  father  of  two 
beautiful,  bright  children,  an  heir  to  the  father's  virtue,  an 
heiress  to  the  mother's  beauty. 

And  yet  this  marriage,  which  might  have  been  looked  upon 
as  likely  to  be  the  crowning  act  of  happiness  to  his  life,  which 
might  have  been  expected  to  exert  influences  the  most  benefi 
cial  on  his  character,  and  perhaps,  even  to  conquer  the  morbid 
thirst  for  vengeance,  and  attune  his  diseased  spirit  to  a  better 
and  more  wholesome  character  of  sentiment,  was  perhaps,  in 


353 

truth,  the  least  wise  action  of  a  not  unwise  man,  and  had  in  reality 
aggravated  what  a  different  union  might  have  relieved,  if  not 
cured. 

Agnes  d'Esterre,  was,  as  I  have  stated,  very  young,  very 
beautiful,  and  as  accomplished  a  girl  as  any  in  the  court  of 
George  the  Second.  For,  although  she  was  of  a  Roman  cath 
olic  family,  and  not  very  remotely  connected  with  her  husband's 
race,  her  line  had  carefully  held  themselves  aloof  from  all  par 
tisan  politics,  and  had,  indeed,  owing  to  some  hereditary  dis 
gust  at  the  Stuarts,  been  so  far  opposed  to  their  restoration  to 
the  throne,  as  to  hold  themselves  entirely  neutral,  when  neu 
trality  \fas  considered  by  the  more  zealous  Romanists,  as  little 
short  of  treason. 

Thus  sprung,  and  thus  endowed  with  all  the  graces  that 
charm  in  a  court  and  fascinate  in  society,  Agnes  d'Esterre  had 
been,  for  nearly  two  years,  the  bright,  particular  star  of  the 
Hanoverian  court  of  St.  James,  and  had  been  somewhat  too 
conspicuous  for  her  love  of  admiration,  and  something  which 
her  friends  called  gayety,  but  which  the  world  at  large  had  set 
down  to  the  score  of  levity,  when  she  was  suddenly  called  up 
on  in  compliance  with  one  of  those  old  family  contracts  which 
were  still  at  that  time  in  vogue,  to  give  up  the  gay  frivolities 
of  the  metropolis,  and  the  court,  and  to  take  in  exchange  the 
noble  gravity  and  decorous  dignity  belonging  to  the  wife  of  Sir 
Reginald  Vernon,  of  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  to  whom  she  had  ac 
tually  been  affianced  before  she  was  herself  born,  and  while 
he  was  but  a  boy  scaling  the  craigs  of  Skiddaw  and  Ilellvellyn, 
to  harry  the  eyry  of  the  eagle,  or  luring  the  bright  trout  with 
the  gaudy  fly,  from  the  clear  expanse  of  Derwentwater,  or  the 
swift  ripples  of  tiie  Eden. 

It  had  been  observed,  during  the  last  season  of  her  unmar 
ried  life,  that,  in  spite  of  her  girlish  humor  for  gayety  and 
change,  and  of  her  volatile  and  coquettish  love  for  admiration, 

30* 


354  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

the  beautiful  Agnes  d'Esterre  was  sure  to  dance  at  least  twice 
in  the  course  of  every  fall  with  young  Bentinck  Gisborough, 
of  late  one  of  the  king's  pages,  and  now  a  dashing  cornet  in 
the  crack  corps  of  that  day,  Honeywood's  dragoons  ;  and  that 
his  charger  was  sure  to  be  reined  up  beside  the  window  of  her 
coach  in  the  park ;  and  his  gorgeous  uniform  regularly  seen  by 
her  side  in  the  avenues  of  the  hall,  or  the  pavilions  of  Ran- 
elagh. 

The  quidnuncs  of  the  town  were  already  beginning  to  whis 
per  sly  inuendoes,  and  the  gossips  to  say  sharp,  spiteful  say 
ings,  amid  their  becks  and  wreathed  smiles,  about  the  true  love- 
tale  that  would  ere  long  be  told  concerning  the  rich  and  beauti 
ful  coquette,  and  the  young,  penniless  coxcomb.  And  it  was 
already  a  matter  of  surmise  how  Marmaduke  d'Esterre,  the 
strictest  of  Romanists,  and  the  closest-fisted  of  millionaires, 
would  be  likely  to  regard  the  alliance  of  his  sole  heiress  with 
her  penniless  cousin,  within  the  forbidden  degrees,  and  protest- 
ant  of  the  most  orthodox  and  jealous  lineage. 

All  this,  however,  was  brought  to  an  end  by  the  appearance 
on  the  stage  of  Sir  Reginald,  in  the  character  of  a  precontract 
ed  suitor,  nobler  both  in  birth  and  appearance,  handsomer,  rich 
er,  more  accomplished  than  his  gay  rival  the  cornet,  and  in  ev 
ery  way  his  superior,  in  both  all  that  becomes  a  man  and  in  all 
that  is  most  apt  to  win  a  woman,  unless  it  were  for  the  single 
drawback  of  the  habitual  gloom  of  the  fair,  broad  brow,  the  un 
smiling  sadness  of  the  grai^e,  serene  features. 

Yet  when  it  was  announced  that  Agnes  was  the  affianced 
bride  of  this  dignified  and  handsome  gentleman,  in  whose  very 
gravity  and  gloom  there,  was  mingled  something  of  Spanish 
chivalry  and  grandeur,  no  surprise  was  manifested  by  any  one 
at  the  perfect  composure  with  which  she  abandoned  the  old 
lover  and  accommodated  herself  to  the  new  bridegroom.  Nor 
did  this  absence  of  wonder  on  the  part  of  the  public  arise  so 


THE    PRECONTRACTED    MARRIAGE.  355 

much  from  any  disparaging  opinion  of  the  young  lady's  con 
stancy  or  good  faith,  as  from  the  general  consent  that  there 
were  few  girls  who  would  be  likely  to  object  to  the  fortune  and 
title  of  Sir  Reginald  Vernon,  particularly  when  these  were 
united  to  a  person  so  superior  in  all  qualities,  physical  and 
moral. 

The  marriage,  like  all  other  matters  of  the  like  nature,  was 
a  nine  days'  wonder  ;  and  then  the  world  ceased  wondering  at 
what  was  in  nowise  wonderful ;  while  the  parties  who  were 
the  most  concerned,  having  been  married,  like  the  dog  which 
bit  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  settled  in  the  country,  and  were 
speedily  forgotten  by  the  gossips  and  quidnuncs  of  the  court. 

For  above  three  years  that  happy  oblivion  continued,  during 
which  period  the  time  wore  onward  peacefully  and  calmly  in  the 
sweet  shades  and  among  the  wild  mountain  scenery  of  Vernon 
in  the  Vale.  During  those  tranquil  days  the  two  fair  children 
of  which  I  have  spoken  were  born  to  Sir  Reginald  Vernon  ; 
and  at  times,  when  he  looked  upon  the  innocent,  bland  brow 
and  smiling  lips  of  his  first-born,  a  gladder  and  more  hopeful 
light  would  shine  over  the  grave,  dark  features  of  the  father, 
and  sometimes  he  would  seem  to  doubt  and  to  debate  within 
himself  the  virtue  and  the  wisdom  of  that  pursuit  of  vengeance 
which  had  been  impressed  upon  him  as  the  first  of  duties,  and 
which  he  had  ever  heretofore  hugged  to  his  bosom  as  his  soul's 
darling  idol. 

Perhaps,  at  this  period  and  crisis  of  his  life,  had  deep  and 
earnest  sympathy  come  to  the  aid  of  his  paternal  doubts  and 
fears,  had  the  tearful  entreaties  of  a  devoted  and  doting  wife 
been  thrown  into  the  scale  in  addition  to  the  apprehensions  of 
a  father  for  his  son's  welfare,  the  balance  might  have  been  re 
stored,  and  the  partisan  have  been  subdued  to  the  part  of  the 
Christian,  of  the  patriot,  and  of  the  man. 

But  that  sympathy  came  not,  those  entreaties  were  not  lit- 


356  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

tered,  the  fount  of  those  tears  was  dry.  The  novelty  of  her 
position  over,  the  light  and  gay  Agnes  d'Esterre,  the  belle  of  a 
court  and  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  soon  grew  weary  of  her 
grave  and  somewhat  solitary  dignity,  weary  of  playing  the 
Lady  Bountiful  to  the  uncultivated  rustics,  weary  to  death  of 
the  grand  Elizabethan  halls  and  gorgeously-stained  oriels  of  the 
Vernon  manor-house,  of  the  wide  sloping  lawns  and  sweeping 
forests  of  the  chase,  of  the  vast  purple  masses  of  the  moorland 
fells,  inhabited  only  by  the  heath-cock,  the  hill-fox,  and  the 
roe. 

For  a  little  while  the  novelty  of  a  mother's  care,  the  claims 
of  the  helpless  innocent,  flesh  of  her  flesh,  and  bone  of  her 
bone,  awakened  the  latent  sentiments  of  her  woman's  heart, 
and  of  love  for  her  babe,  there  was  born  a  sort  of  love  for  her 
babe's  father.  But  the  sentiment  was  evanescent,  the  love  was 
not  genuine,  and  when  the  freshness  of  the  plaything  had  passed 
away,  the  tedium  and  the  loathing  of  the  place,  the  time  and 
the  things  around  her,  returned  with  tenfold  force,  and  she  be 
gan  to  regard  herself  as  an  exile  from  the  land  of  promise,  as 
an  imprisoned  slave  to  the  whims  of  a  tyrannic  husband,  as  a 
much-injured,  much-to-be-pitied  woman. 

At  first  in  the  very  gravity  and  gloom  of  her  noble  husband's 
brow,  in  the  sweet  sadness  of  his  voice,  his  smile,  his  expres 
sion,  in  the  chivalrous  stateliness  of  his  serene  and  calm  de 
portment,  in  the  total  absence  of  all  passion,  of  anything  every 
day,  or  low,  or  little,  in  his  bearing,  there  was  something 
which  had  touched  her,  something  of  mystery  which  had 
aroused  her  curiosity,  of  majesty  which  had  kindled  her  admi 
ration,  of  mournfulness  which  had  called  forth  her  sympathy. 
But  as  she  saw  it  day  by  day,  unchanged,  impassive,  regular, 
and  calm  as  the  career  of  the  moon  in  a  cold,  cloudless  sky, 
this,  too,  began  to  weary  her,  and  ere  long  it  came  to  pass,  that 
had  she  asked  herself  of  what  she  was  most  weary,  of  the 


THE    DISCONTENTED    WIFE.  357 

great  oak-floored  halls  with  the  shadows  from  the  mullions  of 
the  sunlit  windows  sweeping  across  them  slowly  hour  by  hour  ; 
of  the  huge  oaks  like  mighty  gnomons  casting  their  long,  dark 
umbrages  from  west  to  east,  across  the  dial  of  the  smooth, 
grassy  park  ;  of  the  gleams  of  light  and  purple  mist,  alternating 
with  one  another  over  the  glens  and  gulleys  of  Cross  Fell ;  of 
the  regular  routine  and  unexciting  tranquillity  of  a  country  life, 
with  few  neighbors,  few  amusements,  and  neither  balls  nor 
drums,  scandal  nor  dissipation  ;  or  of  the  constant,  sad,  serene, 
yet  ever-kind,  ever-attentive  husband,  she  would  have  been, 
perforce,  compelled  to  own  that  of  all  the  accessories  of  Ver- 
rion  in  the  Vale,  the  most  wearisome  to  her  light  and  unrespon 
sive  spirit  was  the  great,  tranquil,  sustained  character  of  Sir 
Reginald. 

In  her  light,  frivolous  nature,  there  was  no  touch  of  romance, 
though  she  would  have  been  most  indignant  had  she  been  told 
so,  for  she  delighted  to  fancy  herself  the  most  impulsive  and 
sympathetic  of  characters — there  was  nothing  capable  of  feel 
ing  any  grand  or  deep  impression  —  of  understanding  or  appre 
ciating  anything  above  ordinary  standards  of  humanity.  Hers 
was  a  truly  e very-day  worldly  nature  —  she  could  have  meas 
ured  the  colossal  frame  of  the  ^Ethiop  Memnon,  with  the  tape 
of  a  Finsbury  man-milliner,  and  gauged  the  mystic  head  of  the 
Egyptian  sphynx,  with  reference  to  the  duchess  of  KendaFs 
last  new  ear-rings. 

What,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  almost  divine  in  human  na 
ture,  had  such  as  she  to  do,  that  she  should  wed  with  such  a 
one  as  Vernon! 

She  should  have  been  the  wife  of  Bentinck  Gisborough  ;  the 
painted  butterfly,  of  the  gilded  reptile  —  and  he,  the  noble  and 
the  doomed,  he  should  have  walked  solitary  in  the  solemnity  of 
his  dark  career,  or  should  have  been  won  from  it  by  the  quick 
ening  communion  of  a  high  and  sympathizing  soul. 


358  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

But  there  was  no  sympathy,  no  communion  of  motives  or  of 
thoughts  between  them,  farther  than  those  of  everyday  exist 
ence.  How  should  there  have  been  any  other — the  one  of  the 
earth,  all  earthy — the  other,  of  the  spirit — but,  alas  !  of  what 
spirit  —  all  too  spiritual  ! 

Arid  yet,  unlike  as  they  were,  ill-matched  and  incongruous 
in  all  things,  they  had  by  no  means,  during  the  brief  space  of 
their  wedded  life,  become  estranged  or  cold.  No  quarrel  had 
ever  broken  the  quiet  tenor  of  their  lives,  nor  had  any  marked 
indifference  grown  up  between  them. 

The  lady,  although  frivolous  and  light-minded,  was  light- 
hearted  also,  and  good-natured — easily  pleased  as  she  was 
wearied  easily  ;  and  he  was  all  too  gentle,  and  too  generous,  too 
regardful  of  her  slightest  wishes,  too  indulgent  to  her  childlike 
follies,  that  she  could  purposely  or  deliberately  do  anything  to 
annoy  him.  Indeed,  there  was  something  engaging  in  the  very 
frivolity  of  the  young  wife,  something  in  her  utter  thoughtless 
ness  and  abandonment  to  the  whim  of  the  present  moment, 
which  so  strongly  suggested  to  a  superior  mind  the  want  of  a 
guardian  and  protector  for  one  so  innocent  and  artless,  as  to 
create  a  sort  of  claim  on  the  affections,  similar  to  that  felt  by  a 
powerful  and  athletic  man  toward  a  beautiful  and  sportive  child. 

And  such  in  a  great  degree,  was  the  feeling  of  Sir  Reginald 
Vernon  toward  the  young,  petted,  and  spoiled  beauty  whom  he 
had  taken  in  an  evil  hour,  obedient  to  the  will  of  his  dead  pa 
rents,  to  be  the  partner  of  his  life  and  the  mother  of  his  chil 
dren.  He,  perhaps,  even  loved  her  the  more  in  that  he  could 
the  less  esteem  her  —  loved  her  with  a  sort  of  paternal  affec 
tion,  leading  to  much  endearment,  many  caresses,  but  to  no 
confidence,  no  interchange  of  opinions,  no  community  of  senti 
ments. 

And  thus  he  never  suspected  that  she  was  discontented  with 
her  changed  sphere  ?  that  she  absolutely  loathed  the  quiet  of 


THE    SON    AND  .DAUGHTER.  359 

that  country  life,  which  was  so  dear  to  himself;  and  that  the 
cultivation  of  her  garden,  the  care  of  her  birds,  the  duties  of 
her  maternity,  about  all  of  which  he  saw  her  for  the  moment 
interested  and  apparently  happy,  lacked  the  variety  and  the  in 
tensity  to  fix  her  volatile  and  restless  tastes.  But  leaving  her 
to  the  pursuit  of  the  trifles,  which,  as  he  believed,  amply  en 
grossed  and  occupied  her  every  wish  and  sentiment,  he  went 
his  own  way,  wandering  alone  in  deep,  abstracted  thought  under 
his  groves  of  immemorial  oak,  or  rambling  over  the  wild  fells, 
carabine  in  hand,  rather  as  an  excuse  for  solitude,  than  in  pur 
suit  of  game,  or  poring  over  ponderous  tomes  of  casuistry,  or 
of  the  art  strategetical,  in  his  dark,  open  library. 

Thus  had  three  years  elapsed,  since  he  had  wedded  the  fair 
Agnes  D'Esterre.  The  eldest  son,  a  bright,  noble  boy,  whose 
dark  locks  and  eagle  eye,  undirnmed  by  the  sadness  of  maturity 
and  thought,  were  all  the  father's,  while  the  resplendent  smile 
and  unwearied  glee  were  of  the  mother's  spirit,  was  in  his  sec 
ond  year,  running  already  on  firm,  fleet  limbs,  and  even  now  be 
ginning  to  syllable  his  first  few  words  in  that  broken  dialect  so 
sweet  to  a  parent's  ear.  His  second,  a  daughter,  a  wee  satin- 
skinned,  rosy,  blue-eyed  thing,  with  the  golden  curls  and  peach- 
like  bloom  of  Agnes,  clung  still  to  the  nurse's  bosom,  nor  had 
essayed  its  tiny  feet  as  yet,  on  the  hard  surface  of  this  thorny 
world.  But  at  this  period  a  strange  alteration  took  place  in  the 
mood  and  deportment  no  less  of  Sir  Reginald,  than  of  his 
lady. 

With  the  arrival  of  the  winter  of  1644,  there  began  to  spread 
throughout  the  people  of  England,  and  of  the  north  especially, 
one  of  those  singular  bruits  or  rumors,  which,  scarcely  even 
meriting  the  name  of  rumors,  so  unformed  and  indistinct  are 
they,  yet  frequently  arouse  a  nation's  expectations  to  the  high 
est  pitch ;  and  for  the  most  part  as  surely  indicate  some  coming 
convulsion  or  phenomenon  in  the  political  world,  as  does  the 


3GO  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

strange  unnatural  murmur,  rather  felt  than  heard,  announce  the 
approach  of  the  earthquake,  the  outburst  of  the  volcano.  Thus 
was  it,  through  that  long  and  dreary  winter ;  and  although  the 
court  sat  unmoved,  and  drank  and  gamed  at  St.  James,  careless 
alike,  and  fearless  of  the  coming  storm,  the  people  of  the  rural 
districts  talked  darkly  of  great  changes,  and  portentous  troubles, 
changes  of  dynasties,  and  troublous  times  of  war.  And  though 
they  knew  not  what  it  was  they  feared,  they  trembled  and 
shook  in  their  inmost  souls  ;  and  heard  strange  voices  in  the 
winds  ;  and  saw  wondrous  apparitions  in  the  moonlight  of  au 
tumnal  eves,  or  among  the  mists  of  wintry  mornings,  apparitions 
of  marching  regiments,  and  charging  squadrons,  with  colors  on 
the  wind,  and  music  in  the  air,  on  lonely  heaths  and  wilds  in 
accessible  to  the  foot  of  man. 

At  this  time  it  was,  that  Sir  Reginald  Vernon  shook  off,  as 
if  by  magic,  the  gloom  and  abstraction  which  had  characterized 
his  demeanor,  and  became,  on  a  sudden,  quick-witted,  ener 
getic,  active,  both  of  mind  and  body,  and  seemed  to  be  pos 
sessed  altogether  by  a  kind  of  eager,  enthusiastical  excitement, 
wholly  at  variance  with  his  usual  habits. 

He,  who  had  scarce  for  years  absented  himself  for  a  night 
from  his  own  roof,  who  had  scarcely  gone  beyond  the  bounda 
ries  of  his  own  demesnes,  ten  times  in  as  many  years,  unless 
in  pursuit  of  the  chase,  was  now  much  abroad — at  first  for 
hours,  then  for  days,  and  at  last  for  weeks,  and  even  months  at 
a  time  Twice  he  made  distant  journeys,  once  as  far  north 
ward  as  to  the  wild  country  of  the  Clans,  beyond  the  highland 
line  in  Scotland,  and  once  on  a  visit  to  some  of  the  great  cath 
olic  families  in  Cheshire. 

He  was  constantly  now  in  the  company  of  the  neighboring 
gentry,  was  often  seen  at  fair  and  market,  and  all  casual  collec 
tions  of  the  country  people  ;  and  it  began  to  be  observed  that 
Sir  Reginald  Vernon  from  having  been  a  student  of  books,  had 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  A  COMING  STORM.         361 

become  on  a  sudden  a  student  of  men,  and  from  a  suitor  of  the 
Muses,  had  become  a  courtier  of  the  people's  favor. 

About  this  time,  his  horses,  about  the  breed,  beauty,  and  con 
dition  of  which,  he  had  been  at  all  times  solicitous,  were  greatly 
increased  in  number,  and  either  personally,  or  by  his  agents,  he 
purchased  every  sound,  young,  well-bred  animal  of  sufficient 
bone  and  substance,  till  his  own  stables  contained  above  a  hun 
dred  excellent  cattle,  and  more  than  twice  that  number  were 
distributed,  nominally  as  their  own  property,  among  the  granges 
and  halls  of  the  tenantry  and  neighboring  yeomen. 

To  account  as  it  were  for  this,  Sir  Reginald  now  set  on  foot 
a  pack  of  staghounds,  and  a  fine  mew  of  hawks,  to  fly  which 
latter,  a  train  of  German  falconers  were  brought  to  Vernon  in 
the  Vale,  as  well  as  several  French  riding-masters,  to  break 
the  young  animals  to  the  manege  ;  and  it  was  noticed  that  all 
these  men  \vere  grayheaded,  mustached,  weather-beaten  vete 
rans,  many  of  them  with  scarred  visages,  and  all  with  a  singu 
larly  military  port,  and  a  great  habit  of  bearing  weapons. 

Thereafter,  grand  hunting-matches,  such  as  had  never  been 
heard  of  before,  became  the  order  of  the  day.  Matches  at 
which  the  gentry  of  all  the  adjoining  counties  were  often  pres 
ent  with  their  mounted  followers,  to  the  number  of  three  or  four 
hundred  horse.  And,  though  it  was  noted  only  at  the  time  to 
be  admired  by  the  rustics,  great  evolutions  were  often  performed 
in  driving  the  open  country,  and  everything  was  done  at  sound 
of  bugle,  and  with  fanfares  of  French  horns. 

Great  football  plays  were  also  held,  by  both  Sir  Reginald  and 
other  gentry,  in  their  parks,  at  which  the  rural  population  were 
gathered,  sometimes  to  the  number  of  a  thousand,  and  then 
were  taught  to  march  orderly  to  and  from  the  dinner-tents,  and 
were  once  or  twice  set  to  practise  with  firearms  provided  for 
the  purpose,  at  targets  in  the  chase. 

31 


362  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

Thus  far,  all  was  clone  openly  and  aboveboard,  but  it  was 
well  known  to  the  initiated  few,  that  on  every  moonlight  night 
regular  drills  were  held  of  troops  of  horse,  and  companies  of 
foot,  in  every  park  for  miles  around  ;  that  all  the  tenantry  and 
households  of  the  catholic  gentry  were  regularly  enrolled,  and 
mustered  under  arms ;  and  that  twice  or  three  times  in  every 
month  grand  parades  of  battalions  and  squadrons  were  called 
together,  in  the  loneliest  places  among  the  hills,  at  the  dead 
hour  of  midnight.  And  these  moonlight  musters  it  was,  these 
bands  of  men  hurrying  to  their  trysting-places,  or  returning  at 
the  dead  of  night,  or  in  the  mists  of  morning,  that  were  con 
strued  by  the  superstitious  hinds  of  Cumberland  and  Durham 
into  arrays  of  shadowy  apparitions,  portentous  of  coming  evil. 

And  portentous  of  evil  they  in  truth  were  ;  for  of  a  surety 
they  were  the  harbingers  of  civil  war,  the  cruelest  and  most 
frightful  of  all  earthly  evils  ;  the  tokens  that,  ere  another  year 
should  have  run  its  round,  the  banner  of  the  Stuarts  would  be 
abroad  on  the  winds  of  England,  and  the  clash  of  arms  and  the 
din  of  preparation  resounding  from  Land's  End  to  Cape  Wrath. 
And  this  it  was  which  had  aroused  Reginald  Vernon  from  his 
life  of  dreams,  and  hurried  him  at  once  headlong  into  a  life  of 
action.  And  then  was  it  seen  how  wondrously  he  had  pre 
pared  himself  during  that  period  of  seeming  inaction,  how  he 
had  sharpened  his  faculties,  and  filed  his  spirit  to  the  keenest 
edge,  for  the  emergency  which  he  had  long  foreseen  ;  how  he 
had  girded  up  the  loins  of  his  soul  for  the  pursuit  of  that  ven 
geance,  the  scent  of  which  had  been  for  years  before  hot  in  his 
nostrils. 

At  once  he  stood  forth — not  among,"but  above  all  his  co-re 
ligionist  conspirators,  not  only  as  the  shrewdest  and  the  wisest 
plotter,  but  as  the  undoubted  man  of  action,  the  undeniable 
leader,  the  manifest  and  confessed  chief  of  the  rising. 

Still,  though  he  had  been  closeted  for  many  days  with  his 


AFFECTION'S  NEUTRAL  GROUND.  363 

man  of  business,  rummaging  musty  parchments,  executing 
deeds  of  trust,  and  alienating  property — perhaps  to  put  it  out 
of  reach  of  forfeiture  or  confiscation,  Sir  Reginald  put  no  trust 
in  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 

At  times  his  eye  would  dwell  anxiously  on  her  beautiful 
young  face,  and  his  features  would  work  with  the  internal  strife, 
and  his  lips  would  move  as  though  he  were  about  to  disclose 
his  hidden  griefs  ;  but  then  again  he  would  shake  his  head,  and 
mutter  a  few  faint  words  to  himself,  and  walk  aside  without 
casting  ofT  his  burthen. 

Perhaps  he  feared  to  trust  her  discretion  with  the  fate  of 
thousands  ;  perhaps  he  dreaded  to  involve  her  in  the  perils  of 
his  enterprise,  for  the  laws  of  treason  and  misprison  in  those 
days  were  awful  instruments,  which  had  no  respect  of  person 
or  of  sex ;  nor  would  the  axe  of  the  executioner  have  spared 
the  white  neck  of  the  delicate  and  tender  lady,  more  than  that 
of  the  harnessed  veteran. 

And  she  —  she  too  was  changed.  Hitherto,  she  had  been 
weary  only ;  weary  of  her  home,  her  life,  her  companion. 
Hitherto  she  loathed  only  her  pursuits,  and  the  place  to  which 
she  held  herself  condemned  as  a  captive,  without,  as  yet,  loath 
ing  him  to  whom  her  lot  had  so  unmeetly  linked  her. 

She  had  regarded  him,  at  first,  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  ad 
miration,  not  all  unmixed  with  fear,  as  if  of  a  superior  being, 
this  custom  and  companionship  had,  in  the  earlier  years  of 
their  union,  been  converted,  with  the  aid  of  his  unvarying  kind 
ness  and  attention,  into  a  sort  of  calm  and -tranquil  liking,  wholly 
passionless,  it  is  true,  and  unfervent,  and  even  superficial,  but 
at  the  same  time  honest  and  sincere. 

Usage,  however,  his  uniform  stateliness,  and  his  want  of 
sympathy  with  her  pleasures,  or  of  confidence  in  her  powers 
of  consolation,  had  converted  this  faint  liking  into  total  in 
difference.  She  ceased  to  love,  yet  did  not  hate  him.  She 


364  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

did  not  love  him  enough  even,  paradoxical  as  such  a  phrase 
may  seem,  to  learn  to  hate  him. 

But  now  there  was  a  change  !  She  saw  the  man  energeti 
cal,  alive,  awake,  active,  full  of  enthusiasm,  full  of  excitement, 

interest,  daring !  Had  he  been  always  thus,  she  could 

What  ?  alas  !  woman,  what  ? 

And  now  this  very  awakening  up  to  action,  and  spirit-stirring 
thoughts  and  deeds,  was  an  insult — a  proof  that  his  indifference 
to  her  and  her  pursuits  was  not,  as  she  had  believed,  constitu 
tional,  and  not  to  be  amended,  but  studied,  personal,  intentional 
—  the  child  of  contempt,  of  scorn.  And  what  will  a  woman 
not  endnre,  rather  than  a  man's  scorn,  and  that  man  a  husband. 

Meanwhile  the  days  rolled  onward  ;  the  snows  of  winter 
melted  into  the  lap  of  spring,  and  the  sunshine  of  '45  clothed 
the  uplands  and  vales  of  England  with  fresh  verdure,  alas  !  to 
be  more  redly  watered  than  with  the  genial  dews  of  heaven,  or 
ere  the  frosts  should  sere  one  blade  of  the  meadow-grass,  one 
leaf  of  the  woodland  shade.  And,  with  the  summer,  rumor 
waxed  more  rife,  and  the  advent  of  the  Stuarts  was  bruited 
through  the  land,  but  scarce  believed  of  any,  while  the  court 
sat  secure  in  London,  in  reckless  or  obtuse  tranquillity. 

In  the  north  all  things  went  on  as  before,  Sir  Reginald  even 
more  actively  employed  than  during  the  past  autumn,  and 
rarely  now  at  home,  save  for  a  few  hours  in  the  early  morning, 
after  which  he  would  still  ride  forth,  not  to  return  until  the 
night  was  far  advanced  toward  another  day,  and  the  stars  paling 
in  the  streaky  skies,  his  lady  lighter  and  more  gay  and  reckless 
than  her  wont. 

For  in  the  early  part  of  that  eventful  summer,  a  squadron  of 
Honeywood's  dragoons  marched  into  Carlisle,  and  there  took  up 
their  quarters  ;  and  in  that  squadron  was  Bentinck  Gisborough, 
now  elevated  to  the  rank  of  captain.  He  was  a  cousin,- as  I 
said,  of  Agnes,  and  his  two  sisters — they  were  orphans,  had 


BENTINCK    GISBOROUGH.  365 

accompanied  their  brother  to  the  north,  and  accepted  the  hospi 
tality  of  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  where  they  were  received  cor 
dially  by  Sir  Reginald,  who  was  pleased  to  secure  female 
companionship  for  his  young  wife,  and  that  of  her  own  connec 
tions,  during  the  continuance  of  the  strife  which  he  knew  was 
at  hand,  and  his  own  absence  with  the  army. 

Carlisle  was  not  so  far  distant,  nor  the  garrison  duties  of 
that  day,  when  military  discipline  was  relaxed  and  slovenly,  so 
onerous,  but  that  Bentinck  Gisborough  was  a  frequent  visiter 
at  the  manor-house.  And  being  a  gay,  good-humored  youth, 
who  followed  his  own  careless  pleasures,  scarcely  appearing 
to  notice  anything  that  was  going  on  around  him,  Sir  Reginald 
was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  to  see  him  often  at  his 
house  —  the  more  so,  that  the  presence  of  a  king's  officer  in 
his  family  was  a  sort  of  guaranty  for  his  loyalty,  in  those  days, 
of  general  distrust,  and  effectually  prevented  any  suspicion  of 
his  movements  or  intentions. 

The  young  officer  rode  out  with  the  ladies,  or  loitered  with 
them  in  the  gardens,  tuned  their  spinets,  and  sang  duets  with 
his  fair  cousin,  once  his  flame  ;  and  appeared  to  pay  no  atten 
tion  to  the  movements  of  his  active  host,  unless  when  he  was 
invited  to  join  him  in  the  chase,  or  to  partake  of  a  day's  shoot 
ing  on  the  hills  —  invitations  which  he  never  failed  to  accept, 
and  to  enliven  so  effectually  by  his  frank  temper  and  ready 
wit,  that  he  became  ere  long  almost  as  much  a  favorite  with 
Sir  Reginald,  as  with  his  gay  ladye  ;  and  all  at  Vernon  in  the 
Vale,  while  the  atmosphere  was  in  that  nursing  calm  abroad, 
which  ever  portends  a  loud  convulsion,  "  went,"  in  the  words 
of  the  poet,  "  merry  as  a  marriage-bell." 

How  long,  alas  !  should  that  merriment  continue.  It  was 
the  evening  of  a  lovely  day  in  June,  and  the  heat  which  had 
been  almost  oppressive  had  subsided  into  a  fresh,  sweet  softness, 
tempered  by  the  falling  dews,  and  redolent  of  the  refreshed 

31* 


366  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

flowers.  The  hall,  which  had  been  so  gay  of  late,  and  lively, 
was  quieter  that  evening  than  its  wont,  for  Sir  Reginald  had 
ridden  forth  in  the  morning,  followed  by  two  servants,  intending 
to  be  absent  for  a  week  or  more  in  Durham,  and  Bentinck 
Gisborough,  who  had  been  an  inmate  during  the  last  three 
weeks,  had  accompanied  him  a  few  miles  on  his  way,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  was  to  strike  off  for  Carlisle  to  rejoin  his  regi 
ment,  so  that  the  ladies  had  been  left  alone  during  the  day,  and 
had  grown  perhaps  a  little  weary  of  each  other,  for  they  had 
separaied  early  in  the  afternoon  and  retired  to  their  own  cham 
bers,  and  now  the  Ladies  Lucy  and  Maud  Gisborough,  tall, 
elegant  and  handsome  girls,  were  lounging  upon  the  terrace 
before  the  door,  playing  with  a  leash  of  beautiful  Italian  grey 
hounds,  and  wondering  where  in  the  world  was  Agnes  Vernon. 

And  where  was  Agnes  Vernon  ? 

At  the  northwestern  angle  of  the  park  there  is  a  deep  and 
most  romantic  glen,  feathered  with  yews  and  other  graceful 
evergreens  on  the  farther  bank,  and  divided  from  the  chase  by 
a  long  hill  of  young  oak  plantations,  intersected  with  walks 
and  pleasure  drives,  forming  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the 
grounds,  as  commanding  many  views  of  the  falls  and  rapids  of 
the  swift,  clear  mountain  torrent  which  rushes  through  the 
wild  boar's  cleugh,  as  the  glen  is  named  from  a  tradition  that 
the  last  of  those  fierce  animals  slain  in  the  north  country  there 
held  his  secret  lair. 

On  this  tumultuous  stream  there  is  one  fine  cataract,  known, 
from  the  foamy  whiteness  of  its  waters,  as  the  "  Gray  Mare's 
Tail,"  leaping,  in  a  fine  arch  of  fifty  feet,  over  a  sheer  limestone 
rock,  on  the  very  verge  of  which,  overlooking  the  shoot  of  the 
fall,  and  the  foam  brine  at  its  foot,  stood  a  small,  gothic  hermit 
age,  or  summer-house,  overshadowed  by  a  superb  gnarled  oak 
of  many  a  century's  growth. 

In  this  lone  hermitage,  on  that  sweet  evening,  after  the  sum- 


A    CLANDESTINE    APPOINTMENT.  367 

mer  sun  had  set,  and  the  purple  horror  of  the  woodland  twilight 
had  sunk  dim  and  drear  over  the  shaggy  glen,  sate  the  young 
lady  of  the  manor  alone,  apparently  expectant,  listening  for 
some  sound,  which  she  could  scarce  hope  to  hear  above  the 
rush  and  roar  of  the  falling  waters. 

She  was  very  young,  slender  and  graceful  as  a  fairy,  and 
with  her  soft  blue  eyes  and  long  floating  golden  ringlets,  and 
white  dress,  with  no  ornament  but  a  long  scarf  of  deep  green 
sendal,  she  might  well  have  been  taken,  in  that  superstitious 
day,  and  that  simple  neighborhood,  for  a  spirit  of  the  wild  wood, 
or  the  stream,  a  thing  intangible  and  aerial,  almost  divine. 

But  there  was  light  in  those  blue  eyes  that  was  not  of  the 
spirit,  a  hot  flush  on  those  fair  cheeks  that  spoke  volumes  of 
earthly  passion,  a  smile  on  those  parted  lips,  all  too  voluptuous 
for  anything  above  mortality. 

She  was  listening  with  the  very  ears  of  her  soul  —  it  is  —  it 
is !  There  was  a  rustle  among  the  foliage,  a  rush  as  of  stones 
spurned  by  a  climber's  heel,  down  the  steep  gully's  side,  a 
footstep  on  the  threshold. 

With  a  faint  cry  she  sprang  forward,  and  was  caught  in  the 
arms,  was  clasped  to  the  bosom  of  a  man. 

Alas,  alas  !  for  Agnes  !  —  that  man  was  not  Reginald  Vernon. 


368  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 


PART   II. 

"  And  Hugo  has  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 
To  covet  there  another's  bride ; 
And  she  to  lay  her  guilty  head 
A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside  !" — PAHISIBTA. 

"  AH  !  Bentinck,  have  you  come  at  last  ?" 

"  Sweet,  sweetest  Agnes." 

The  moon,  robed  with  her  soft,  silver  light,  rose  above  the 
tree-tops  in  her  full-orbed  glory ;  edging  the  fresh  luxuriant 
verdure  with  a  fringe  of  mellow  lustre,  and  checkering  the 
smooth,  grassy  lawns  with  long  gleams  and  alternate  shadows. 
The  nightingale  sings  not  in  wide  woodlands  of  the  north,  but 
the  jarring  cry  of  the  night-hawk,  and  the  plaintive  hooting 
of  the  distant  owls,  blended  themselves  with  the  near  murmur 
of  the  waterfall,  and  with  the  low,  soft  music  of  the  western 
wind  among  the  tree-tops,  and  formed  a  sweet  and  soothing 
melody,  replete  with  the  calm  tenderness  of  moral  associa 
tions. 

But  the  guilty  pair  saw  not  the  tender  light  tipping  the  green 
with  silver,  or  glittering  in  diamond  showers  upon  the  spray  of 
the  clear  cascade  ;  they  heard  not  the  cadences  of  the  water 
and  the  breeze,  nor  heeded  the  cry  of  the  nocturnal  birds. 

Brighter  to  him  was  the  unholy  fire  that  beamed  from  her 
blue  eyes,  and  sweeter  the  low  murmur  of  her  passionate  ex 
pressions,  than  all  the  lights  of  heaven,  than  all  the  hymns  of 
angels,  could  they  have  resounded  in  his  ears  deafened  by  crime 
and  hardened  against  all  diviner  sentiments,  by  the  defilement 
of  an  evil  earthly  passion. 


THE    GUILTY    LOVERS.  369 

It  is  a  mistake  to  believe  that  the  wicked  are  not  happy  in 
the  first  transport  of  their  wickedness,  and  they  are  both  false 
moralists  and  unwise  teachers,  who  would  have  us  to  believe 
otherwise. 

There  is  indeed  to  the  guilty,  as  there  is  to  all  of  human 
mould,  and  in  a  greater  degree  than  to  the  calm  and  virtuous 
who  tread  the  paths  of  moderation,  the  drop  of  bitterness  which 
still  arises,  as  the  poet  of  nature  sang,  in  the  mid  fount  of  ev 
ery  human  pleasure,  stinging  them  like  a  thorn  among  the 
sweetest  flowers. 

It  is  when  the  hour  of  reaction  has  arrived,  when  the  nerves 
are  relaxed  and  unstrung  by  the  very  violence  and  fury  of  their 
own  excitement ;  when  the  head  aches  and  the  hand  trembles, 
overdone  and  outworn  by  the  very  excess  of  enjoyment ;  when 
the  spirit,  failing,  exhausted,  yet  yearns  with  a  sick  and  morbid 
craving,  wearied  and  insatiate  of  passion,  for  some  fresher  ex 
citement,  fiercer  stimulant ;  it  is  then  that  the  punishment  com 
mences  which  is  the  inseparable  consequence  of  sin  ;  it  is  then 
that  conscience  resumes  her  power  over  the  shuddering  mind  ; 
that  the  vulture-talons  of  the  fury  retribution  pierces  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  miserable  sinner. 

But  for  Agnes  and  Bentinck,  thoughtless  and  young  tran- 
gressors,  the  hour  of  anguish  had  not  yet  arrived ;  nor  that 
strange  hatred  of  the  wicked,  one  against  the  other,  which  so 
constantly  succeeds  to  the  decline  of  unholy  passion. 

They  were  yet  quaffing  the  first  drops  of  that  beverage,  the 
dregs  of  which  are  bitterness,  and  loathing,  and  despair ;  and 
in  their  self-deception,  they  fancied  that  one  thing  alone  was 
wanting  to  their  happiness,  the  power  of  displaying  to  each 
other,  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world,  their  deep  fondness 
of  being  each  to  the  other,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  open 
ly  and  without  reproval,  all  in  all. 

Nor  did  they  fail — as  when  did  the  human  heart  ever  fail  of 


370  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

self-deception?  —  to  palliate, nay  excuse,  their  disgraceful  sin,  to 
lay  the  blame  on  fate,  on  the  world,  on  anything,  except  their 
own  corrupt  and  wilful  natures. 

And,  in  truth,  as  is  oftentimes  the  case,  there  was  some  slight 
show  of  justice  in  their  reclamations  against  the  world,  as  they 
called  the  society  of  the  court-circle  of  St.  James.  For  it  is 
true  that  they  had  loved  in  youth,  to  the  utmost  extent  perhaps 
of  which  their  frivolous  and  slight  natures  were  capable  of  lov 
ing  ;  and  the  affections  of  the  very  young,  if  not  of  that  depth 
and  ardor  which  characterize  the  passions  of  more  advanced 
life,  are  yet  marked  by  a  freshness,  and  unselfishness,  and  a 
quick  fervor,  which  make  them  pass  for  more  than  they  are 
really  worth,  even  with  the  professors,  who  over-estimate  the 
violence,  owing  to  the  newness  of  the  emotion. 

Hence  it  is  that  so  often  those  who  have  been  divided  or  kept 
asunder  by  chance,  by  the  rules  of  social  position,  or  by  some 
violence  done  to  the  feelings,  return  in  after-life,  as  the  French 
proverb  says  we  always  do,  to  their  past  loves,  and  that  with  a 
violence  which  breaks  all  bonds,  and  overleaps  all  obstacles  ; 
whereas  had  they  been  suffered  to  take  their  own  course,  and 
had  no  restraint  been  put  upon  their  actions,  the  early  and  un 
stable  fancy  or  predilection  would  have  worn  itself  out,  which 
contradiction  alone  has  magnified  into  a  mighty  and  absorbing 
passion. 

Thus  had  it  been  with  Agnes  d'Esterre  and  Bentinck  Gis- 
borough,  had  Reginald  Vernon  never  been  sent  by  his  evil  des 
tiny  to  claim  the  hand  of  his  unconsciously-betrothed  bride,  in 
an  unhappy  hour,  and  one  fraught  with  misery  or  shame  to  all 
whom  it  concerned.  For  so  light  was  the  character  of  the 
vain,  spoiled  beauty,  as  was  proved  by  the  ease  with  which  she 
consented  to  fulfil  the  contract,  and  the  favorable  ear  which  she 
lent  to  Reginald's  addresses,  and  so  very  a  coxcomb  was  the 
young  dragoon,  that  ere  a  second  season  had  elapsed,  it  is  ten 


A    TRANSITION    STATE.  371 

to  one  they  would  have  separated  by  mutual  consent,  and  never 
thought  of  each  other  more. 

But  as  it  was,  when  amid  the  lonely  shades  of  Vernon  in 
the  Vale,  and  in  the  uncongenial  atmosphere  of  her  husband's 
calm  and  abstracted  society,  Agnes  began  to  cast  a  regretful 
glance  to  the  gayeties  and  frivolities  of  London  ;  to  contrast 
the  light-hearted  mirth  and  merry  companionship  of  the  gay, 
handsome,  fashionable  cornet,  with  the  tranquil  and  melancholy 
dignity  of  Vernon  ;  and  above  all,  to  regard  it  as  the  despite 
of  fate,  and  not  the  operation  of  her  own  free  will,  that  had 
given  her  as  an  unresponsive  wife  to  the  arms  of  the  sad,  si 
lent  conspirator  ;  she  soon  learned  to  exaggerate  in  her  own 
thoughts  the  love  she  had  felt  for  Gisborough  ;  to  brood  over 
the  destiny  which  had  separated  them  ;  to  pine  in  secret  for  the 
absent  hero  of  her  fancy's  love. 

In  the  solitude  and  seclusion  in  which  she  lived,  with  no  as 
sociate  of  her  own  rank,  by  whose  companionship  to  lighten 
the  monotony  of  her  weary  existence,  with  no  sympathizing 
friend,  or  young  monitor,  on  whose  affection  she  might  rely, 
she  nursed  and  cherished  her  thick,  teeming  fancies,  till  she 
had  persuaded  herself  into  the  belief  that  she  was  the  most 
miserable  of  her  sex,  an  unloved  wife  of  a  cold,  misanthropic, 
and  hard-hearted  husband,  and  the  passionate  adorer  of  an  idol 
ized  and  idolizing  lover. 

By  slow  degrees  she  grew  to  despise  and  loathe  a  character 
too  great  and  noble  for  her  comprehension  ;  she  came  to  regard 
Sir  Reginald  as  the  bar  betwixt  herself  and  happiness,  to  feel 
weariness  for  his  society,  aversion  for  his  person,  and  some 
thing  not  far  removed  from  actual  hatred  for  the  man  whom  she 
had  sworn  to  love  and  honor. 

Tranquil  in  his  character,  calm  in  his  very  affections,  never 
ardent  even  in  the  warmest  of  his  feelings,  it  is  easy  to  imagine 
that  Sir  Reginald  was  the  last  person  to  discover  the  coldness 


372  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

of  his  lady,  or  to  suspect  her  dislike  for  his  person.  As  there 
was  no  society  to  call  forth  her  coquetry  with  others,  there  were 
no  causes  by  which  to  excite  his  jealousy  or  distrust ;  and  so 
long  as  he  saw  her  always  beautiful,  always  graceful,  and  al 
ways,  at  least  in  outward  semblance,  gay — for  gayety  was  an 
inborn  quality  of  her  nature — he  thought  of  her  only  as  a  very 
fair  and  gentle  mistress  of  his  household,  and  loved  her  rather 
as  the  mother  of  his  children  and  the  partner  of  his  home,  with 
the  grave  and  chaste  affection  of  a  pious  philosopher,  than  as 
she  desired  to  be  loved,  with  the  passion  of  an  ardent  and  ado 
ring  lover. 

When  the  fatal  year  of  the  rebellion  came — that  rebellion  so 
disastrous  to  the  catholic  and  tory  aristocracy  of  England — for 
the  Romanist  was  then  the  farthest  in  the  world  removed  from 
the  radical — and  when  Sir  Reginald  Vernon  broke  out  from 
his  repose  of  moody  disaffection,  into  the  activity  and  eager 
ness  of  rebel  preparation  ;  when  his  days  were  passed  in  his 
study,  planning  the  means  whence  to  support  the  sinews  of  the 
war,  or  by  which  to  avert  the  consequences  of  defeat,  and  half 
his  nights  in  the  saddle,  reviewing  his  tenantry  and  mustering 
his  yeomen  into  service,  he  had  even  less  leisure  than  before 
to  observe,  and  less  reason  to  suspect  the  aversion  of  his  wife. 

And  she,  when  she  saw  the  eagerness,  the  enthusiasm,  the  spirit, 
nay,  the  passion,  which  he  could  expend  on  an  object  that  aroused 
his  interest,  and  stirred  his  soul  to  its  depths,  was  not  perhaps 
all  unjustly  mortified  and  galled  at  being  sensible  of  her  own 
inability  to  kindle  him  to  life  ;  looked  upon  herself  as  a  woman 
scorned ;  began  to  detest  the  neglecter  of  her  charms,  and  to 
meditate  the  woman's  revenge  by  the  medium  of  the  very  beau 
ty  which  she  conceived  to  be  undervalued. 

Bentinck  arrived,  as  I  have  said,  a  welcome  guest  to  the  con 
fiding  and  pure-hearted  husband,  and  a  long-desired  and  ready 
accomplice  in  her  vengeance  to  the  wilful  and  wicked  wife. 


THE  WILFUL  AND  WICKED  WIFE.  373 

Agnes  Vernon  fell  not,  nor  was  seduced  into  the  paths  of 
vice  ;  headlong,  yet  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  she  rushed  into 
the  abyss  of  sin  and  shame,  and  revelled  in  the  very  conscious 
ness  of  infamy,  which  to  her  warped  and  distorted  vision,  ap 
peared  in  the  light  of  a  just  revenge. 

It  will  scarce  be  believed,  except  by  those  who  have  studied 
the  depths  of  the  human  heart,  and  learned  to  know,  what  the 
Mantuan  poet  sang,  "  furens  quid  fsemina  possit,"  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  Gisborough  could  prevail  upon  her  so  far  to  veil 
her  guilt,  as  to  avoid  her  husband's  eye,  and  that  she  actually 
grieved,  at  times,  that  her  revenge  was  incomplete,  so  long  as 
Reginald  was  unacquainted  with  her  infamy. 

It  is  probable  that  fear  only  of  his  desperate  wrath — for  she 
well  knew  the  intensity  of  anger  of  which  his  calm,  resolute, 
deep  soul  was  capable  —  and  the  unwillingness  to  sacrifice  her 
luxurious  state  and  high  position,  alone  prevented  this  infamous, 
and  almost  insane  wretch  from  willingly  and  knowingly  betray 
ing  herself. 

But  of  late  a  fresher  and  stronger  inducement  was  added  to 
her  reasons  for  avoiding  a  premature  discovery  of  her  guilt. 

She  had  become  aware  of  the  reason  of  her  husband's  al 
tered  demeanor,  had  learned  the  full  extent  of  his  complicity  in 
the  rebellion  which  was  on  the  eve  of  breaking  out,  and  had 
exerted  her  every  power  of  fascination  and  persuasion  to  fix 
him  in  his  fatal  purpose,  even  to  the  lavishing  upon  him  of 
those  Delilah-like  caresses  which  revolted  her  as  she  bestowed 
them. 

She  learned,  moreover,  that  in  his  anxiety  to  avoid  the  con 
fiscation  of  his  property  and  the  beggaring  of  herself  and  his 
children  in  case  of  failure,  he  had  actually  alienated  the  whole 
of  his  estates,  transferring  them  legally  and  for  a  valuable  consid 
eration,  to  three  trustees,  of  whom  —  marvellous  infatuation!  — 
Bentinck  Gisborough  was  one,  for  her  benefit  and  that  of  his 

32 


374  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

children  as  her  heirs  ;  and  this  suggested  to  her  depraved  mind, 
the  thought,  to  which  the  hope  was  indeed  the  father,  that  he 
might  find  a  red  grave  on  the  battle-field,  and  she  have  it  in  her 
power  to  bestow  upon  that  lover,  to  whom  she  had  already 
given  herself,  her  hand,  together  with  her  own  and  her  chil 
dren's  fortune. 

To  do  Bentinck  Gisborough  mere  justice,  he  was  ignorant 
of  this  refinement  of  domestic  treason.  Perhaps,  had  he  been 
aware  of  it,  it  might  so  far  have  revolted  all  his  better  feelings, 
as  to  lead  him  to  break  off  the  connection  with  Agnes,  and  to 
escape  her  fascinations. 

Well  for  him  had  it  been  to  do  so. 

But  with  the  woman's  wicked  craft,  she  had  foreseen  that 
the  confession  of  her  morbid  motives  would  disgust  the  hair- 
brained  and  daring  spirit,  which  even  in  its  worst  points,  had 
nothing  in  it  of  the  mercenary  or  the  calculating,  and  had  con 
cealed  them  from  him  carefully,  well  knowing  that  he  could  be 
wrought  upon  to  commit  deeds  for  the  secure  possession  of  her 
person,  from  which  he  would  have  recoiled  if  suggested  for  the 
attainment  of  pecuniary  advantage. 

She  had  disclosed  to  him,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  inten 
tions  of  her  husband,  and  made  him  acquainted  with  the  immi 
nence  of  the  rebellion.  But  information  thus  obtained,  he  was 
too  honorable  to  reveal  to  the  government,  even  if  he  had  not 
been  well  content  to  let  matters  take  their  course.  For  he  had 
no  conception  of  the  extent  of  the  ramifications  of  the  conspir 
acy,  of  the  general  nature  of  the  discontents  against  the  Hanove 
rian  government,  or  of  the  great  chances  which  really  existed 
at  that  moment  for  the  success  of  a  Jacobite  insurrection. 

He  did  not  believe  for  a  moment,  that  the  movement  would  be 
more  formidable  than  that  of  the  rebellion  of  '15,  which  had  been 
put  down  almost  without  an  effort,  and  its  ashes  drenched  though 
not  extinguished  in  the  blood  of  its  gallant  but  misguided  leaders. 


THE  REBELLION  STANDARD  UNFURLED.        375 

He  was  convinced  that  a  single  battle  in  the  north  of  Eng 
land,  would  crush  the  insurrection,  and  as  his  own  regiment  of 
horse  was  quartered  at  Carlisle,  and  was  of  consequence  like 
ly  to  be  among  the  first  engaged,  he  hoped  to  have  an  opportu 
nity  of  measuring  swords  with  the  man  whom  he  regarded  as 
his  enemy,  and  the  wrongful  possessor  of  his  own  intended 
bride  rather  than  as  one  whom  he  was  wronging  in  the  tender- 
est  point  of  honor. 

The  present  meeting  of  the  guilty  pair  was  chiefly  for  the 
discussion  of  projects,  the  laying  of  plans,  the  betrayal  of  the 
husband's  last  secret  by  his  abandoned  wife. 

The  prince  —  for  of  princely  birth  he  was,  though  outcast  from 
his  father's  realm,  not  by  his  own  but  by  his  father's  vices  —  the 
prince  had  landed  in  the  wilds  of  Moidart,  and  unfurled  the 
standard  of  rebellion  over  the  heads  of  seven  adherents  only, 
but  those  made  of  the  stuff  which  almost  supplies  the  want  of 
armies.  The  clans  were  rushing  to  arms,  Lochiel,  Keppoch, 
and  Glencarry,  had  belted  on  the  broadsword,  and  slung  the 
targe  upon  the  shoulder.  The  gentry  of  the  northern  counties, 
already  ripe  for  insurrection,  would  be  in  arms  within  six  days 
at  farthest,  and  in  a  week  from  that  same  day,  Reginald  Vernon 
would  set  foot  in  stirrup,  and  unsheathe  his  father's  sword,  in 
the  vain  hope  to  avenge  the  death  of  that  father. 

I  do  not  mean  to  assert,  for  I  do  not  believe  it  to  be  true, 
that  direct  earthly  retribution  always  or  often  follows  the  sin 
ner  to  "  overtake  him  when  he  leasts  expects  it,"  or  that  HE  to 
whom  eternity  is  as  to-day,  is  so  prompt  to  strike,  that  his  ven 
geance  is  manifest  here  below.  It  is,  as  I  regard  it,  a  poor, 
and  presumptuous,  and  unphilosophical  morality,  which  looks 
for  the  punishment  of  the  guilty  in  this  world,  by  direct  Divine 
agency — which  sees  the  judgment  of  God  in  the  flash  of  the 
lightning's  bolt,  or. hears  the  voice  of  his  anger  in  the  thunder's 
roar.  "  Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged,"  are  as  much  words 


376  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

of  HIS  speaking,  as  that  awful  sentence,  "  Vengeance  is  mine, 
I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord."  And  repay  he  will,  of  a  surety, 
and  good  measure,  yea,  pressed  down  and  running  over  —  but 
when,  let  him  say,  who  can  pronounce  whence  the  wind  comes 
and  whither  it  goes  in  its  path  of  devastation. 

But  there  is  another  way,  in  which  sure  retribution  does  fol 
low  crime  arid  overtake  it,  even  here  on  earth,  and  that  way 
the  philosopher  is  prompt  to  observe  and  sure  to  mark.  That 
way  is  the  way  of  nature,  the  common  course  of  things,  the 
general  law  of  the  universe.  For  that  law  has  decreed,  more 
immutably  than  that  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  that  as  surely 
as  there  is  sin,  so  surely  shall  there  be  satiety ;  and  he  who 
shows  this  as  the  consequence  of  vice,  is  a  wise  teacher  and  a 
good,  because  he  is  a  true  one. 

Now  that  the  blow  was  actually  struck,  and  when  intelli 
gence  sent  to  the  government  could  in  nowise  arrest  the  out 
break,  or  anticipate  the  full  disclosure  of  the  conspirator's  overt 
guilt  and  open  action,  she  prevailed  upon  Gisborough  to  write 
to  his  father  by  a  special  messenger  to  London,  warning  him 
fully  of  all  that  had  occurred,  so  to  obtain  the  credit  of  zeal  for 
the  powers  that  were,  and  to  avoid  the  suspicion  of  being  privy 
to  the  secrets  of  the  rebels. 

Next  to  this  she  obtained  his  promise — though  many  a  ca 
ress  was  lavished  ere  she  prevailed  in  this  —  to  inform  Honey- 
wood  of  the  movement  of  the  catholic  gentry  of  the  northern 
counties,  and  to  induce  him  to  act  promptly  for  the  suppression 
of  the  rising,  by  striking  instantly  and  in  force  at  the  levy  of 
cavalry  which  would  be  made  at  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  on  the 
seventh  day  thereafter. 

"  Come  yourself,  Bentinck,"  she  said,  "  come  yourself,  my 
own  beloved,  brave  Bentinck,  with  your  gallant  squadrons,  and 
let  your  own  good  sword  work  the  deliverance  of  your  Agnes. 
Let  my  eyes  look  upon  his  fall,  sweet  at  any  hand,  but  doubly 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    RESPONSE.  377 

sweet  at  yours,  my  love,  my  champion,  my  deliverer  ;  and  I 
will  hail,  will  bless  the  day,  which  shall  make  me  yours  alto 
gether  and  for  ever." 

"  Can  you  be  more  mine  than  you  are  now,  my  own  Agnes  ?" 
cried  the  young  man  eagerly. 

"  Only  in  this,  my  Bentinck,  that  I  shall  then  be  yours  be 
fore  the  face  of  the  world,  before  the  face  of  my  Maker,  who 
never  meant  me  for  the  wife  of  that  cold-blooded,  haughty 
despot." 

"  Sweet  Agnes,"  cried  the  soldier ;  "  Heaven  send  it,  as  you 
say  ;  and  I  will  slay  him  !" 

"  And  I  say,  never  !  adulterer  and  murderer,  never !"  said  a 
harsh  voica  without,  in  deep,  hoarse,  grating  accents,  but  yet 
with  something  feminine  in  the  manner  and  intonation.  In 
stinctively  the  soldier's  hand  fell  to  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  and 
the  next  instant  he  stood  without  the  little  building,  on  the 
small,  open  esplanade,  on  which,  save  a  small  space  under  the 
shadow  of  the  oak-tree,  the  full  moonbeams  dwelt  lovingly,  so 
that  for  fifty  yards  around,  all  was  as  bright  as  day. 

There  was  no  braver  man  than  Bentinck  Gisborough,  in  that 
island  of  the  brave,  whereon  he  had  his  birth  ;  and  with  all  the 
national  courage  of  his  breed,  all  the  hereditary  courage  of  the 
race,  and  that  last  cause  for  courage  added  —  the  instinct,  quod 
etiam  timidos  fortes  facit,  which  prompts  the  wren  to  do  battle 
for  its  partner — the  defence  of  the  woman  prompting  him — 
he  sprang  forth,  expecting  to  do  battle  on  the  instant  with  a  re 
solved  and  mortal  foe. 

But  the  blood  turned  stagnant  in  his  veins,  and  the  hair 
seemed  to  bristle  on  his  head,  as  he  gazed  on  the  sward  around 
him,  and  found  nothing — no  sign  of  human  life — no  form,  no 
sound,  no  footstep,  although  no  time  had  elaspsed  for  flight, 
although  no  covert  was  within  reach  for  the  shelter  of  a  human 

32* 


378  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

being-,  although  the  voice  which  he  had  heard,  uttered  its  words 
within  ten  paces  of  the  door. 

To  circle  round  the  building,  the  oak-tree,  to  examine  its 
leafy  canopy,  and  every  trifling  hollow  of  its  gnarled  trunk,  was 
but  a  moment's  work,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  was  no 
one  present,  or  within  ear-shot  of  anything  less  than  a  halloo  ; 
although  the  words  which  had  reached  his  ear,  were  not  spo 
ken  much  above  the  usual  tone  of  conversation,  and  although 
they  implied  that  all  the  low  whispers  of  their  guilty  schemes 
had  been  overheard  by  the  speaker. 

There  was  no  one  present ;  and  after  all,  the  young  soldier 
had  naught  to  do  but  to  return  to  the  pale  and  trembling  Agnes, 
and  explain  how  fruitless  had  been  his  exertions  to  find  the  in 
truder,  and  ask  of  her  if  it  could  have  been  imagination  that 
had  presented  the  strange  sounds  to  their  senses. 

"  No  more  than  this,  our  meeting  is  imagination,"  she  re 
plied,  "  my  Bentinck.  But  what  matters  it  ?  Had  it  been  he, 
you  should  have  slain  him  now  and  here,  and  that  had  been  the 
end  of  it.  For  the  rest,  he  is  in  the  toils,  and  he  can  not  es 
cape  them,  for  all  he  be  brave,  wise,  and  wary ;  and  if  we  have 
been  observed,  I  care  not  even  if  the  observer  tell  him.  It  will 
but  add  a  pang  to  an  existence,  the  term  of  which  is  already 
fixed,  and  wThich  may  not  be  much  prolonged  by  any  means. 
So,  tell  him,  listener,  if  you  will,"  she  added,  raising  her  soft 
and  musical  voice  to  a  pitch  all  unwonted,  and  stepping  to  the 
door  Avith  an  impudence  of  bearing,  which,  had  it  been  less 
guilty,  had  been  almost  sublime  :  "  Tell  him  that  you  have 
heard  Agnes  d'Esterre  —  for  Agnes  Vernon  I  am  not  —  assure 
her  Gisborough,  with  all  the  truth  of  earnest  love,  that  she  was 
his,  and  his  alone.  Tell  him  that,  secret  spy — tell  him  that 
—  and  you  will  but  serve  my  purpose,  torturing  him  with  ti 
dings  that  shall  avail  him  nothing  !" 

"  Hush !    Agnes.      Hush !    beloved   one,"   cried   the   young 


WILD    WORDS THE    PARTING.  379 

man,  shocked  and  amazed  by  this  wild  outburst  of  immodest 
and  unwomanly  defiance.  "  These  are  wild,  whirling  words  , 
and  such,  in  truth,  avail  nothing,  if  they  even  mean  anything." 

"Mean  anything!  Mean  anything,  do  you  say,  Bentinck 
Gisborough  ?  What  should  they  mean,  but  that  I  hate  him 
deeply,  deadly  ?  hate  him  more  even  than  I  love  you !  hate  him 
so  utterly  that  his  death  would  bring  me  no  pleasure,  if  he  die 
fancying  that  I  love  him." 

"  Oh !  do  not,  Agnes,  do  not  say  such  words,  if  you  love  me 
—  even  if  they  be  true  ;  say  them  not,  my  own  Agnes." 

"  If  I  love  you,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  if  they  be  true  !  Have  I 
not  given  you  proof  that  I  love  you,  and  will  I  not  prove  that 
they  are  true,  to  the  very  letter  ?  But  if  you  love  not  to  hear 
me,  I  am  silent.  Once  more,  then,  go  your  way,  with  blessings 
on  your  head,  and  fail  me  not,  I  implore  you,  this  day  week, 
my  own  Bentinck.  For  of  precious  truth  !  I  do  believe,  that 
if  he  survive  that  day,  I  shall  die  even  of  his  odious  life  !"  At 
length,  she  tore  herself  away,  and  darted  through  the  dim,  wild 
woods,  homeward — homeward — half-fearful,  half-rejoicing  in 
the  partial  discovery  of  her  treason. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing  after  her  beautiful,  elastic 
figure,  till  he  lost  sight  of  her  among  the  trees,  and  then  with 
a  deep  drawn  sigh,  he  turned  away,  bounded  down  the  near 
side  of  the  steep  ravine,  leaped  from  stone  to  stone  across  the 
channel  of  the  noisy  stream,  and  appeared  indistinctly  a  moment 
afterward  among  the  shrubbery  on  the  farther  bank,  scaling  the 
steep  acclivity. 

Five  minutes  afterward,  the  clang  of  a  distant  horse's  tramp 
was  heard  sounding  on  the  rocky  brow  of  the  hill,  at  a  hard 
gallop,  and  then  there  was  silence. 

A  moment  or  two  passed,  and  then  a  sort  of  trap  or  shutter 
was  raised  in  the  stylobate,  or  substructure  of  the  hermitage,  the 
floor  of  which  was  elevated  some  two  feet  above  the  surface  of 


380  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

the  soil,  and  was  rendered  accessible  by  four  low,  flat  steps,  un 
der  which  a  secret  door  had  been  constructed,  giving  access 
to  a  vault  or  cellar  underneath  the  building. 

From  this  aperture,  there  now  emerged  cautiously  and  slowly 
the  head  and  then  the  whole  person  of  a  tall,  gaunt,  and  raw- 
boned  woman,  apparently  of  very  great  age,  for  her  dark,  sallow 
skin  was  fretted  with  so  many  wrinkles,  that  at  first  sight,  she 
struck  the  observer  as  having  been  tattooed  after  the  fashion  of 
the  Australasian  savages,  and  her  hair,  which  was  cut  short 
round  the  head,  like  a  man's,  was  as  white  as  the  driven  snow 
of  winter,  as  were  her  shaggy  pendant  eyebrows,  likewise,  and 
her  long,  thin  lashes,  from  beneath  which  a  pair  of  small,  black 
piercing  eyes  gleamed  out  with  a  spiteful,  venomous  sparkle, 
like  that  of  some  vicious  reptile. 

Her  face,  however,  in  spite  of  this  ominous  and  threatening 
eye,  was  decidedly  intellectual,  full  of  thought,  and  not  unbe- 
nevolent  in  its  general  character,  although  decidedly  its  most 
distinctive  feature  was  the  firm  resolution  expressed  by  the  thin, 
compressed  lips,  and  the  bony  angular  jaw. 

In  figure,  she  was  very  tall,  and  although  gaunt  and  emacia 
ted  by  age,  rather  than  privation,  her  limbs  were  sinewy  and 
muscular,  more  than  is  usual  among  women,  and  her  hands 
especially  were  as  large  and  almost  as  strong  as  a  man's.  The 
dress  of  this  singular  and  masculine  looking  female  consisted 
of  a  petticoat  of  the  common  russet  serge,  which  constituted 
the  usual  country  wear,  with  a  sort  of  coarse,  half-manlike  jerkin 
or  doublet  over  it,  made  of  bright  blue  cloth,  with  tight  sleeves 
and  a  high  collar,  this  unwonted  garment  descending  nearly  to 
the  hips.  Above  this  again  she  wore  a  long  and  voluminous 
scarf  of  scarlet  duffle,  disposed  about  her  gaunt  and  angular 
person,  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  Highlander's  plaid.  On  her 
head  she  had  a  Scottish  bonnet,  and  in  her  sinewy  hand  she 
carried  a  stout  pike-staflf  of  some  five  feet  in  length,  with  a 


THE    FIERCE    MALEDICTION.  381 

sharp,  steel  head.  Nor  did  it  appear  that  this  was  her  only 
weapon,  for  there  were  two  protuberances  closely  resembling 
the  form  of  pistol  butts,  clearly  visible  at  the  waist  of  her  blue 
jacket ;  and  the  black  leathern  scabbard  of  what  was  undoubt 
edly  a  long  knife,  protruded  below  its  hem. 

Her  legs  were  covered  by  blue  woollen  stockings,  with  large 
scarlet  clocks,  and  her  feet  protected  by  stout  brogues  of  un- 
tanned  hide,  which,  strong  as  they  were,  gave  evidence  of 
much  hard  usage  and  long  travel. 

As  she  emerged  from  her  place  of  concealment,  which  she 
did  warily  and  slowly,  closing  the  trapdoor  securely  after  her 
so  that  no  trace  was  left  to  unfamiliar  eyes  of  the  existence  of 
the  secret  vault,  that  woman  stood  and  gazed  anxiously  in  the 
direction  which  Agnes  had  taken  in  her  flight,  and  then  listened 
if  she  might  judge  aught  of  the  lover's  whereabout  from  the 
sound  of  his  distant  horse-hoofs.  But  there  was  neither  sound 
nor  sight  to  guide  her,  and  satisfied  as  it  would  seem,  that  she 
was  entirely  alone,  she  gave  way  to  the  full  force  of  her  indig 
nation  and  disquiet,  dashing  her  pike-staff  violently  upon  the 
rocky  soil,  and  gnashing  her  teeth  in  the  bitterness  of  her  rage. 

."  Accursed  wanton,"  she  exclaimed,  "  foul,  soulless,  sensual 
wretch  !  False  Delilah  !  accursed  Jezebel  —  may  the  fate  of 
Jezebel  be  thine  ;  may  dogs  eat  thee  yet  alive,  and  may  thy 
name  perish  utterly  from  among  thy  people  ;  and  it  is  to  such 
as  thee  that  wise  men  intrust  their  honor !  that  prudent  men 
confide  the  fate  of  mighty  enterprises,  the  fortunes  of  their  best 
and  dearest  friends.  It  is  to  insure  the  being  kissed  in  luxu 
rious  chambers  by  thy  curled  darling  that  a  great,  a  royal  under 
taking  must  be  cast  to  the  winds — that  the  blood  of  the  noble, 
and  the  faithful,  and  the  brave,  shall  dye  the  moorlands  with  a 
ruddier  hue  than  the  bloom  of  their  purplest  heather.  Out  on 
it !  out  on  it '  that  after  all  the  doings,  all  the  sufferings  of  our 
church,  our  people,  and  our  lawful  king,  the  lust  of  a  titled 


382  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

wanton  and  an  embroidered  coxcomb,  should  prostrate  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  wisest,  the  bravery  of  the  bravest,  and  change 
the  course  of  dynasties,  the  fate  of  nations  !  Out  on  it !  out  on 
it  ?  So  young,  so  delicate  to  look  upon,  and  yet  so  shameless, 
and  so  daring,  and  of  so  resolute  and  bold  a  spirit.  But,  by 
the  faith  of  my  fathers  !  I  will  thwart  her,  or  she  shall  rue  the 
day  when  she  dared  to  hatch  domestic  treason,  and  plot  mur 
der  under  trust.  But  I  will  thwart  her." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  and  in  a  low,  muttered  tone,  but  with  fierce 
emphasis,  and  fiery  eyes  full  of  vindictive  anger  ;  and  as  she 
ended  her  soliloquy,  she  too  plunged  into  the  deep  woods,  in  a 
direction  nearly  parallel  to  that  taken  by  Agnes  Yernon,  but 
pointing  more  directly  toward  the  manor-house  ;  arid  was 
speedily  lost  amid  the  shadowy  glades,  while  the  little  summer- 
house  was  left  all  silent  arid  untenanted,  amid  the  cold,  clear 
moonlight,  and  the  calm  stillness  of  the  summer-honse. 

Meanwhile  the  wretched  woman  hastened  with  fleet  steps 
homeward.  She  had  already  threaded  the  greater  part  of  the 
woodland  path  which  led  somewhat  circuitously  through  the 
plantings  to  the  open  park,  and  she  might  see  already  the 
moonlight  sleeping  calm  and  serene  on  the  smooth  grassy  lawns, 
beyond  the  opening  of  the  bowery  walks  in  which  she  stood 
secluded,  as  if  within  a  vault  of  solid  verdure,  when  a  quick, 
sudden  rustling  of  the  bushes,  violently  parted  by  the  passage 
of  some  body  in  quick  motion,  startled  and  in  some  sort  alarmed 
her.  But  almost  instantly  she  rallied  from  her  half-conceived 
apprehension,  as  she  reflected  how  near  she  was  to  the  house, 
and  how  little  chance  there  was  of  any  real  danger  within  the 
precincts  of  her  own  park. 

The  sound,  moreover,  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  commenced, 
and  she  laughed  with  a  low,  musical  laugh  at  her  own  fruitless 
fear,  muttering  to  herself :  "  It  was  a  deer  only,  or  perhaps  a 
timorous  hare  or  rabbit  startled  from  its  form,  and  I,  fool  that  I 


THE  THREATENED  VENGEANCE.  383 

am,  was  afraid,  when  I  might  have  known  well  that  no  danger 
can  reach  me  here." 

"  Adulteress  and  liar !"  exclaimed  the  hoarse  voice  which 
she  had  heard  before,  now  close  at  her  elbow  ;  and  at  the  same 
instant  that  tall,  gaunt,  sinewy  woman  started  from  the  thick 
coppice  and  confronted  her,  barring  her  homeward  path,  and 
bending  on  her  eyes  of  deadly  and  revengeful  wrath. 

"  Adulteress  and  liar !"  she  repeated,  clutching  the  delicate 
and  slender  wrist  of  Agnes  in  her  own  vulture-like,  iron  talons, 
while  with  the  other  hand  she  drew  a  pistol  from  her  girdle, 
cocked  it,  and  levelled  it  within  a  hand's  breadth  of  her  head. 
"  There  is  danger  here  ;  and  even  here  shall  God's  vengeance 
find  thee.  Down  on  thy  knees,  I  say,  down  on  thy  knees, 
wanton,  down  on  thy  knees,  accursed  murderess  of  thy  wedded 
lord,  and  make  thy  peace  with  Heaven,  for  with  the  things  of 
earth  thou  hast  done  for  ever." 

"What  have  I  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  slay  me — me 
who  have  never  seen  thee  before,  much  less  wronged  thee  ?" 
asked  Agnes,  faltering  now  in  mortal  terror,  for  she  recognised 
in  the  harsh,  croaking  tones  which  she  now  heard,  the  voice 
which  had  broken  off  her  guilty  interview  with  Bentinck  in  the 
hermitage,  and  doubted  not  that  this  singular  and  terrible  old 
woman  was  cognizant  of  all  her  crimes,  and  capable  of  reveal 
ing  all  her  hidden  projects. 

"  Much  !"  —  cried  the  fierce  old  enthusiast,  "  much  hast  thou 
done  already  against  my  cause  —  for  the  cause  of  the  true  church 
and  the  rightful  king  is  mine — much  hast  thou  done  already, 
traitress  and  murderess,  and  much  more  wilt  do,  if  I  cut  not 
off  at  once  thy  crimes,  and  thy  thread  of  being.  Wilt  thou 
pray,  woman,  wilt  thou  pray,  I  say,  or  wilt  thou  die  in  thine 
impenitence,  and  so  go  down  to  hell  with  all  thy  sins  rankling 
on  thy  soul,  unconfessed  and  unshriven  ?" 

"  It  is  too  late !"  replied  the  wretched  girl,  now  terribly 


384  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

alarmed,  but  striving  to  maintain  a  bold  front,  for  she  half  be 
lieved  the  strange  woman  to  be  mad,  arid  perhaps  fancied  that 
by  boldness  she  could  overawe  her.  "  It  is  too  late  ! — but  if 
it  were  not  so,  and  I  were  all  that  thou  hast  called  me,  who 
constituted  thee  mine  accuser,  my  judge,  and  my  executioner  ?" 

"  He  who  made  all  things,  who  seeth  all  things,  and  who 
hath  set  his  law  on  high,  that  all  who  run  may  read  it,  even 
the  law  of  blood  for  blood.  Pray,  I  say,  pray,  adulteress,  for 
this  day  thou  diest." 

Agnes  Vernon  closed  her  eyes  in  despair,  expecting  to  re 
ceive  the  death-shot  in  her  face  from  the  close  levelled  weapon 
of  the  fanatic,  when  the  shrill,  savage  bay  of  a  deer  greyhound 
smote  her  ear  with  tidings  of  near  help,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  voices  of  men  nigh  at  hand. 

Hitherto  she  had  been  silent,  fearing  by  her  cries,  that  she 
should  only  irritate  the  maniac  and  precipitate  her  action,  with 
out  procuring  assistance,  but  now  she  screamed  aloud  in  mortal 
terror,  for  the  click  of  the  pistol  lock  had  fallen  on  her  sharp 
ened  ear,  and  she  felt  that  she  had,  indeed,  but  an  instant  to 
live,  if  aid  came  not. 

"  It  is  my  lady's  voice,"  cried  one  of  the  men,  a  keeper,  or 
wood-ranger.  "  Forward,  Hugh,  forward,  Gregory,  to  the  old 
horn-beam  walk."  But  swiftly  as  they  hurried  forward,  they 
would  have  come  too  late,  had  not  a  swifter  foot  and  more 
vigorous  ally  rushed  to  the  rescue. 

With  a  repeated  yell,  a  large  wire-haired,  dun-colored  deer 
hound  burst  through  the  coppice,  and  springing  at  the  woman's 
arm,  caught  the  sleeve  of  the  coarse  jacket  which  she  wore, 
in  his  strong  teeth.  He  bore  down  her  hand,  and  the  levelled 
weapon  which  went  off  harmlessly  in  the  struggle  ;  when  the 
enthusiast,  seeing  that  she  could  not  effect  her  purpose,  turned 
to  escape,  and  Agnes,  who  by  no  means  desired  her  capture, 
called  off  the  dog,  as  if  for  her  own  protection. 


THE    RESCUE THE    ESCAPE.  385 

"  In  God's  name,  my  lady,  what  has  harmed  thee  ?"  cried  a 
rough  woodman,  bursting  upon  the  scene,  with  his  loaded  mus- 
ketoon  in  his  hand ;  "  we  were  out  seeking  thee,  even  now." 

A  highly  ornamented  bracelet  had  fallen  from  her  arm  in  the 
struggle,  and  lay  on  the  green  sward  at  her  feet,  glittering  in  a 
stray  moonbeam,  which  had  found  its  way  through  a  chink  in 
the  verdant  arch  overhead,  and  this  suggested  to  her  quick  wit 
a  ready  answer. 

"  A  robber — a  ruffian  !"  she  replied  ;  "  a  strong,  armed  man, 
disguised  as  a  woman.  See,  he  tore  off  my  jewels,  and  would 
have  murdered  me,  but  for  my  brave  and  faithful  Bran,"  and 
therewith  she  caressed  the  great,  rough  dog,  which,  in  truth, 
had  preserved  her.  "  Follow  him  quickly,  Hugh,  and  see  you 
shoot  him  dead  at  once  !  Seek  not  to  make  him  prisoner,  he 
is  a  desperate  villain,  and  it  will  cost  life  to  secure  him.  Shoot 
him  dead,  I  say,  on  the  sight.  I  will  be  your  warranty,  and 
you,  Gregory,  go  wTith  me  home.  I  had  lost  my  way  in  the 
wilderness,  and  got  belated,  when  this  rude  wretch  assaulted 
me,  and  would  have  slain  me." 

The  men  scarcely  paused  to  hear  her  out ;  two  of  them 
plunging  into  the  underwood  in  pursuit,  while  the  third  accom 
panied  her  toward  the  hall,  leading  the  fierce  hound  in  a  leash, 
and  carrying  his  carabine  cocked  in  the  other  hand. 

Before  they  had  gained  the  open  park,  the  loud  report  of 
one,  and  then  of  a  second  shot,  came  ringing  from  the  wood 
lands,  and  a  thrill  of  mingled  horror  and  exultation,  rushed 
through  her  veins,  as  she  muttered  between  her  teeth — "  Now  ! 
now !  they  have  dealt  with  her,  and  I  have  well  escaped  this 
peril,  and  the  witness  of  my  shame  lives  no  longer." 

But  the  guilty  woman  reckoned  without  her  host,  for  she 
had  not  long  arrived  at  the  hall,  before  the  men  returned,  say 
ing  that  they  had  failed  to  apprehend  or  kill  the  fugitive,  owing 
to  the  darkness  of  the  woods,  and  his  speed  of  foot,  although 

33 


386  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD  . 

they  had  both  fired  on  his  track,  and  believed  that  he  was  se 
verely  wounded,  since  they  had  found  much  blood  both  on  the 
leaves  of  the  bushes,  and  on  the  ground,  where  they  had  fired. 
Be  that,  however,  as  it  might,  no  more  was  heard  of  the 
stranger  ;  and  on  the  third  day  thereafter  Sir  Reginald  returned, 
absorbed  as  usual  in  the  details  of  the  rebellion,  and  all  unsus 
picious  of  his  faithless  wife  ;  and  then,  over  the  heads  of  the 
plotters  and  counterplotters,  the  days  rolled  on  serene  and  tran 
quil,  toward  the  appointed  time,  and  toward  that  end,  which 
though  many  fancied  they  could  see,  one  alone  saw  and  knew, 
and  HE,  from  the  beginning. 


PART    III. 

4<  And  the  headman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew." — PARISINA. 

SWIFTLY,  indeed,  those  brief  days  fled  away ;  and  not  a 
thought  of  trouble  or  regret  came  over  the  strong  mind  of  Sir 
Reginald  Vernon. 

His  part  was  taken,  his  line  had  been  laid  down  from  the  be 
ginning,  and  acting  as  he  did  on  what  he  was  convinced  to  be 
the  road  of  duty,  he  was  not  the  man  to  shrink  at  the  moment 
of  execution. 

He  was,  moreover,  so  thoroughly  satisfied  that  the  cause  of 
the  Stuarts  would  prevail,  and  "  the  king  enjoy  his  own  again," 
that  he  was  untouched  by  those  anxious  and  sad  forebodings 
which  often  almost  shake  the  firmness  of  the  bravest  breasts, 
when  setting  forth  upon  some  desperate  or  dubious  enterprise. 

He  had,  it  is  true,  taken  precautions  in  case  of  the  failure  of 


THE    WILY    TRAITRESS.  387 

his  party,  for  the  preservation  of  his  estates  to  his  children,  but 
this  done,  except  some  natural  doubts  regarding  the  chances  of 
his  own  life,  on  which  he  looked,  as  brave  men  ever  will  look, 
sanguinely,  he  was  prepared  to  set  forth  on  a  campaign  against 
the  established  government,  with  as  little  dread  concerning  his 
return  home,  as  if  he  were  about  to  ride  out  only  on  a  hunting 
match. 

Between  himself  and  Agnes,  there  had  never  existed  any 
very  rapturous  or  romantic  relations,  and  these  had  long,  in  so 
far  as  they  ever  had  existed,  subsided  into  the  mere  common 
places  of  every-day,  decorous,  married  life.  The  wily  girl  had, 
moreover,  affected  so  much  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of  church 
and  king,  the  better  to  confirm  him  in  the  prosecution  of  his 
mad  schemes,  that  it  cost  her  little  to  veil  her  delight  at  his  de 
parture,  under  the  disguise  of  zealous  eagerness  for  the  resto 
ration  of  the  right  line. 

And  never,  perhaps,  had  the  unhappy  and  doomed  man  so 
much  admired  the  beautiful  being  to  whom  he  was  so  fatally 
linked  as  when  he  saw  her,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  with 
the  white  rose  in  her  beautiful  fair  hair,  the  chosen  emblem  of 
their  party,  infusing  hope  and  courage  into  the  meanest  of  the 
tenantry,  and  adding  fresh  spirit  to  the  ardor  and  enthusiasm 
of  the  catholic  gentry  by  her  brilliancy,  her  beauty,  and  her 
indomitable  spirits.  w 

Perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  fortunate  for  the  guilty  woman,  that 
from  the  instant  of  her  husband's  return  home  to  that  of  his  de 
parture,  the  hall  was  one  constant  scene  of  tumult  and  excite 
ment,  for  had  it  been  otherwise  it  would  have  been  difficult  in 
deed,  for  her  to  have  maintained  the  disguise  she  had  adopted, 
or  to  have  blinded  her  husband,  unsuspicious  as  he  was  to  the 
real  motives  of  her  joy. 

But  he  was  accompanied  when  he  came  by  a  large  party  of 
the  Jacobite  gentry,  and  others  kept  flocking  in  continually  to 


388  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

the  rendezvous,  as  it  was  now  resolved  that  the  mask  should 
be  thrown  aside  altogether,  since  it  was  known  that  the  prince 
had  beaten  the  first  force  of  regulars  sent  against  him,  and  cap 
tured  Perth,  and  been  promoted  regent  of  England,  Ireland, 
and  Scotland. 

Honey  wood's  dragoons,  the  only  troops  in  that  part  of  the 
country  capable  of  opposing  them  on  their  first  rising,  had,  it  was 
well  known,  got  their  route,  and  marched  to  reinforce  Cope,  who 
was  moving  northward  to  defend  Edinburgh,  unless  Charles  Ed 
ward  should  intercept  him  ;  and  this  fact,  added  to  the  prestige 
of  a  first  success  already  gained  by  the  rebels,  decided  them  on 
rising  instantly,  and  raising  the  standard  of  rebellion,  while  the 
absence  of  all  regular  troops,  and  the  disaffection  of  the  north 
ern  militia,  should  the  lord  lieutenant  attempt  to  call  them  out, 
set  aside  all  apprehension  of  their  being  interrupted,  until  such 
time  as  their  raw  levies  should  be  disciplined. 

On  the  appointed  morning,  therefore,  among  the  flourish  of 
trumpets,  the  discharges  of  a  few  light  field-pieces,  and  reite 
rated  shouts  of  "  God  save  King  James,"  the  white  standard 
was  hoisted,  and  civil  war  proclaimed  —  God  grant  it  may  be 
for  the  last  time  —  in  England.  Above  a  thousand  men  were 
collected  under  arms,  of  whom  nearly  half  were  horse,  admira 
bly  mounted,  thoroughly  equipped,  and  familiar  with  the  manage 
ment  of  their  horses,  though  rather  as  grooms  and  huntsmen 
than  as  dragoons  or  troopers.  Still  they  formed  as  good  a  ma 
terial  as  could  be  desired  for  the  composition  of  a  light  cavalry 
corps,  they  were  officered  by  gentlemen,  many  of  whom  had 
served,  and  all  of  whom  were  skilful  in  the  use  of  their  weap 
ons.  They  were  full  of  spirit,  and  confident  in  their  prowess, 
and  the  valor  of  their  leaders. 

Many  ladies  were  present,  most  of  whom,  like  the  fair  host 
ess,  had  donned  the  white  rose  for  Stuart,  and  wore  white 
cockades  at  their  bosoms  ;  nor  though  the  ladies  Lucy  and 


SIR  REGINALD'S  DEPARTURE.  389 

Maud  Gisborough  were  of  a  whig  family,  and  more  than  that, 
were  personally  attached  to  the  reigning  dynasty,  did  they  dis 
dain  to  look  upon  the  muster,  although  they  had  not  assumed 
the  emblems  of  the  party,  much  less  to  talk  soft  nonsense  and 
make  sweet  eyes  at  the  younger  and  handsomer  of  the  tory 
leaders. 

Thus  matters  stood  at  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  on  the  morning 
of  the  celebrated  rising  of  the  '45  ;  and  although  Agnes  was 
apprized  already  that  her  hopes  of  betraying  and  cutting  off  the 
whole  party,  together  with  her  hated  husband,  had  been  thwart 
ed  by  the  unavoidable  call  of  the  dragoons  to  the  north,  she 
was  yet  in  unusual  spirits,  for  she  had  no  belief  in  the  possi 
bility  of  success  to  the  rebels'  cause  ;  no  fear  that  Sir  Reginald 
would  escape  either  the  soldier's  sword,  or  the  headsman's  axe  ; 
and  little  cared  she  by  which  he  should  fall,  so  his  death  should 
restore  her  to  liberty. 

And  hence,  never  did  she  look  lovelier,  or  move  more  grace 
fully,  or  speak  more  charmingly,  than  when  she  bade  adieu  to 
her  gallant  lord,  and  saw  him  with  his  brave,  misguided  follow 
ers,  set  foot  in  stirrup  and  ride  proudly  northward,  with  banners 
to  the  wind,  and  music  on  the  summer  air. 

As  Agnes  stood  on  the  terrace,  with  her  blue  eyes  sparkling 
with  a  strange  unnatural  light,  her  cheeks  flushed  crimson,  her 
glowing  lips  apart,  her  whole  frame  seemingly  expanded  and 
alive  with  generous  enthusiasm,  waving  her  embroidered  ker 
chief  to  the  parting  cavaliers,  Maud  Gisborough  gazed  upon 
her  with  a  feeling  she  had  never  felt  before. 

It  was  in  part  admiration,  for  she  could  riot  but  see  and  con 
fess  her  surpassing  loveliness  ;  in  part,  it  might  be,  envy,  for 
she  knew  her  her  own  superior  in  womanly  attractions — but  it 
was  something  more  than  this,  it  was  something  between  won 
der  and  fear.  For  she  saw  now,  that  there  was  something 
deeper  and  stronger  in  the  character  of  her  friend,  than  she 

33* 


390  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

had  ever  heretofore  suspected  ;  and  she  saw  also  that  it  was 
not  all  right  with  her. 

Maud  Gisborough  was  a  light,  vain,  giddy  girl ;  but  the 
world  and  its  flatteries  or  its  follies  had  not  corrupted  a  natu 
rally  good  heart,  so  far  that  she  could  not  distinguish  good  from 
evil. 

She  had  long  perceived,  with  the  quickness  of  a  woman  in 
all  matters  relative  to  the  affections,  that  Agnes  Vernon  did  not 
love  her  husband  with  that  sort  of  love,  which  she  would  have 
looked  to  give  and  to  inspire  in  a  married  life.  Perhaps,  she 
half  suspected  that  she  did  love  her  brother,  Bentinck  Gisbor 
ough  ;  but  she  did  not  imagine,  that  there  was  anything  guilty 
or  dishonorable  in  that  love  ;  that  it  had  ever  gone  beyond  feel 
ings,  and  those  innocent  and  Platonic,  much  less  found  vent  in 
words  and  deeds  of  shame. 

But  now  a  light  shone  upon  her  understanding,  and  she  be 
gan  to  see  much  which  she  had  not  thought  of  before.  And  it 
was  under  the  impression  of  such  an  impulse  or  instinct,  call  it 
as  you  will,  that  she  turned  to  her  suddenly,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  half  blushing  as  she  spoke  : — 

"  You  are  a  strange  person,  Agnes  Vernon.  One  would 
think  to  see  you  now,  so  joyous  and  excited,  that  you  were  on 
the  point  of  gaining  a  lover,  rather  than  running  great  risk  of 
losing  a  husband." 

There  are  moments  when  the  heart  is  attacked  so  suddenly, 
when  overloaded  with  strong  passion,  that  the  floodgates  of  re 
serve,  nay,  of  common  prudence,  are  thrown  open  on  the  in 
stant  ;  and  the  cherished  secrets  of  the  soul,  guarded  with 
utmost  care  and  anxiety  for  years,  are  surrendered  at  the  first 
call,  nay,  even  without  a  call,  and  a  life's  labor  cast  to  the 
winds  by  the  indiscretion  of  a  minute. 

Great  criminals,  who  have  laid  their  plans  with  the  extremest 
ingenuity,  who  have  defied  the  strictest  cross-examinations, 


THE    IMPRUDENT    AVOWAL.  391 

baffled  the  wiliest  lawyers,  till  suspicion  herself  has  been  at 
fault,  and  their  guilt  disbelieved  through  a  long  course  of  years, 
have,  at  some  chance  word  of  an  infant,  or  at  the  gossipping 
of  an  old  woman,  betrayed  the  secret  causelessly,  and  sent 
themselves,  by  their  own  act  and  impulse,  to  the  scaffold,  thus 
giving  rise  to  the  old  adage,  quos  deus  vult  perdcre,  prius  de- 
mentat. 

But  such  is  far  from  being  the  result  or  consequence  of  mad 
ness  ;  showing  much  more  the  intense  operation  of  the  mind, 
than  the  lack  of  it.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  such  a  mo 
ment  was  this  with  Agnes  Vernon  ;  and  to  the  half-casual,  half- 
intended  words  of  her  lover's  sister,  she  replied  on  the  instant : 

"  It  may  be  that  you  are  right,  girl.  The  gaining  of  a  lover 
and  the  losing  of  a  husband,  are  not  always  events  so  far  re 
moved  as  you  may  have  imagined." 

"  Good  faith,  Agnes,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  I  never  have  im 
agined  anything  about  it.  It  seems  to  me  it  were  my  first  es 
say  to  get  a  husband,  not  to  think  how  to  lose  one.  But  you 
are  jesting  with  me,  Agnes,  for  presuming  to  talk  to  a  staid, 
married  lady  like  yourself,  about  husbands." 

For  a  few  minutes,  Agnes  Vernon  was  silent,  more  than 
half  aware  that  she  had  partially  betrayed  herself;  but,  wheth 
er  the  impulse  was  too  strong  for  her,  or  whether  she  was  led 
on  by  the  confidence  that  it  was  Bentinck's  sister  to  whom  she 
spoke,  after  a  pause  she  answered  : — 

"  Take  heed,  dear  girl,  take  heed,  I  beseech  you,  ere  you  do 
get  one  ;  for  this  world  has  many  miseries,  but  none  so  dread 
ful,  I  believe,  as  to  be  linked  to  a  husband  whom  you  hate  !" 

"  Whom  you  hate,  Agnes  !  God  forbid  such  a  thing  were 
possible  !  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  is  so  with  you  ?" 

"  Not  so  !  —  not  so  with  me  !  with  whom  then  should  it  be 
so  ?  Heaven  alone  knows,  how  I  loathe,  how  I  detest  that 


392  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

"  But  wherefore,  Agues  ?  what  has  he  done  to  you,  that  you 
should  so  detest  him  ?" 

"  What  rather  has  he  not  done  to  me  ?  Did  he  not  come 
and  claim  me,  when  I  was  a  girl  —  a  mere  girl  —  a  happy  girl, 
in  London  —  and  tear  me  away  from  all  whom  I  loved,  all  who 
loved  me,  and  drag  me  down  to  these  doleful  woods  here  in  the 
north  ;  and  chill  me  with  his  stately,  stern,  cold-blooded,  heart 
less  dignity,  till  he  has  turned  all  my  young,  warm,  healthful 
blood,  into  mere  stagnant  puddle  ;  till  I  have  been  for  years  as 
hopeless  as  himself,  if  not  as  heartless.  But  Heaven  be  praised 
for  it,  Maud,  there  is  a  good  time  coming." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  whether  she  felt  that  she  had  gone  too 
far  already,  or  that  the  fiery  spur  which  had  goaded  her  to  such 
strange  revelation,  had  grown  cold ;  and  the  quick  light  faded 
from  her  eye,  and  the  flush  paled  from  her  cheek,  and  she  let 
her  head  droop  upon  her  bosom,  and  clasped  her  hands  togeth 
er,  and  wrung  them  for  a  moment  vehemently. 

But  Maud  Gisborough  gazed  on  her  with  a  cold,  fixed  eye, 
and  answered  nothing ;  that  conversation  had  made  the  gay 
girl  older  by  half  a  lifetime,  and  more  thoughtful  than  she 
would,  in  any  probability,  ever  have  been  otherwise. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Agnes,"  she  said,  at  length,  still 
gazing  upon  her  with  that  cold,  grave,  unsympathizing  eye. 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  wish — that  I  ought — to  understand  you. 
I  am  going  to  my  sister." 

"  God  help  me,"  cried  the  miserable  woman  ;  "  I  do  not  know 
that  I  understand  myself." 

But  Bentinck's  sister  paused  not,  nor  looked  back,  but  crossed 
the  terrace,  passed  through  the  great  hall,  ascended  the  stair 
case,  and  rushing  into  her  sister's  chamber,  where  she  sat  in 
her  loose,  brocaded  dressing-room,  reading  a  light  French  nov 
el,  while  her  French  fille-de-chambre  was  brushing  the  mare- 


MAUD    AND    LUCV    GISBOROUGH.  393 

chal  powder  out  of  her  fine  hair,  threw  herself  into  a  seat,  per 
fectly  stunned  and  bewildered. 

"  What  ails  you,  Maud  ?"  cried  the  elder  sister,  a  sharper  and 
far  more  worldly  girl,  "  what  ails  you  ?  have  you  seen  a  ghost,  that 
you  look  so  pale  and  terrified  ?  give  her  a  glass  of  the  camphor- 
julep,  Angelique." 

"  No  !  no,"  replied  the  younger  girl,  waving  aside  the  proper 
stimulant.  "  No,  no  ;  leave  us  a  while,  good  Angelique,  I  must 
speak  with  my  sister,  alone." 

"  Mais,  mon  Dieu  /"  said  the  cunning  French  waiting-woman, 
with  a  shrug,  "  apparement,  miladi  Maud  has  found  out  she  has 
got  one  leetle  heart  of  her  own,  for  somebody  or  oder." 

"  Is  it  so,  sis  ?"  said  Lucy,  laughing  at  the  girl's  flippant 
impudence,  "  and  have  you  found  a  heart,  or  lost  one  ?  But,  no, 
no,"  she  continued,  alarmed  at  the  increasing  paleness  of  Maud's 
pretty  features,  "  it  is  something  more  than  this.  Leave  us, 
Angelique,  and  do  not  return  until  I  ring  the  bell.  Now,  Maud, 
what  is  it,  little,  foolish  sister  ?" 

"  Lucy,"  replied  the  other,  faltering  a  little  in  her  speech,  for 
she  scarce  knew  how  what  she  was  about  to  say  would  be  re 
ceived,  "  this  is  no  place  for  us  any  longer  ;  nor  is  Agnes  any 
companion  for  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Maud  ?  Have  you  gone  mad  all  on  a 
sudden  ?" 

"  You  can  not  conceive,  how  frightfully  she  has  been  talk 
ing,  since  the  gentlemen  rode  away  to  join  the  prince.  She 
told  me  in  so  many  words,  that  she  loathed  and  detested  Sir 
Reginald  ;  and  almost  said  that  she  hoped  ere  long  to  lose  him, 
and  to  get  a  new  lover;  and  if  I  do  not  very  greatly  err,  she 
means  our  brother  Bentinck.  I  do  believe  she  loves  Bentinck, 
Lucy." 

"  Ha  !  ha !  ha  !     Do  you,  indeed,  believe  so,  innocent,  little 


394  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

sis  ?"  cried  the  elder,  laughing  boisterously.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
you  make  me  laugh,  upon  my  word  and  honor.  Why,  I  have 
known  they  loved  each  other  since  the  first  week  we  were 
here.  I  have  seen  him  kiss  her  and  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  a 
dozen  times,  when  they  did  not  dream  that  I  was  near  ;  and  she 
meets  him  every  evening  in  the  woods  somewhere.  I  am  sure 
she  was  with  him  that  night,  too,  on  which  she  made  such  an 
outcry  against  some  person,  who  she  said,  had  robbed  her.  No 
such  thing  !  Some  one  might  have  detected  them  together,  and 
threatened  to  expose  her  ;  and  so  she  wished  to  have  him  put 
out  of  the  way,  whoever  it  was,  to  preserve  her  secret.  Bless 
you,  I  saw  it  with  half  an  eye  —  I  have  known  it  all  along.  You 
are  certainly  either  very  innocent,  sis,  or  a  very  great  hypo 
crite — one  of  the  two." 

"  Very  innocent,  I  hope,  Lucy,"  replied  the  girl,  blushing 
deeply.  "  I  have  heard  of  such  things  in  the  great  world,  but 
never  thought  to  see  them.  What  a  wretch  she  must  be  !  and 
how  wicked  of  Bentinck,  too,  and  she  a  married  woman  !  We 
must  leave  her,  Lucy — we  must  leave  this  place  to-morrow." 

"  I  think  so,  Maud,  dear,"  answered  the  other,  still  laughing 
and  bantering  ;  "  and,  indeed,  it  was  determined  a  week  since, 
that  we  should  do  so.  It  is  Bentinck's  desire  ;  and  he  wrote 
to  Hexham,  about  it  before  leaving  for  his  regiment — but  not, 
Maud,  darling,  because  our  hostess  is  a  little  fie  !  fie  !  but  be 
cause  it  will  not  do  for  -such  loyal  folk  as  we  to  stay  in  the 
house  of  a  proclaimed  rebel.  Now,  don't  be  foolish,  Maud,  I 
tell  you.  You  must  be  very  civil  to  her  while  we  stay  here, 
and  keep  your  little  lips  close  shut  about  her  naughtinesses  ; — 
in  the  first  place,  because  you  can  not  speak  of  them  without 
getting  Bentinck  into  trouble  ;  and,  in  the  next,  because,  if  any 
thing  happens  to  Sir  Reginald,  she  is  to  have  all  this  fine  place 
and  property,  and  when  she  gets  her  right  love,  her  first  love  — 
you  know,  Maud,  dear,  she  was  to  have  married  Bentinck,  till 


PRINCIPLE    VERSUS    PRACTICE.  395 

this  horrid  Vernon  came  and  took  her  away — she  will  make  a 
charming  sister-in-law !" 

"  Lucy !  Lucy  !  how  can  you  talk  so  !  But  you  are  not — 
you  can  not  be  in  earnest." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  perfectly  in  earnest,  and  I  had  no  notion  that 
you  were  such  a  little  simpleton.  Why,  such  things  happen 
every  day,  and  nobody  thinks  about  it,  or  pays  any  attention  to 
them,  unless  they  are  found  out,  and  a  scandal  comes  of  it. 
We  girls,  I  know,  are  not  supposed  to  know  anything  about 
such  things,  but  we  are  not  blind,  or  fools  altogether ;  and  you 
are  just  as  well  aware  as  I  am,  that  a  dozen  of  the  fine  ladies 
of  the  ton,  at  whose  houses  we  visit,  are  not  one  whit  better 
than  they  should  be,  without  taking  our  dear  duchess  of  Ken- 
dal,  into  consideration.  So  just  keep  yourself  as  quiet  as  you 
may,  and  be  very  sure  that  as  soon  as  tidings  can  arrive,  we 
shall  hear  from  our  brother,  the  earl,  ordering  us  home  to  Hex- 
ham  castle.  Now,  if  you  take  my  advice,  you'll  have  a  head 
ache  this  evening,  and  go  to  your  own  chamber,  and  to-morrow 
forget  all  that  has  passed,  and  be  just  as  friendly  with  this  pret 
ty  Agnes,  as  if  nothing  had  been  said.  I  will  go  down  and 
take  my  coffee  with  her  tete-a-tete,  if  you  will  let  me  ring  for 
Angelique." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me,  Lucy,"  replied  the  other,  rising  to 
leave  the  room.  "  But  believe  me,  I  don't  like  it  the  least,  nor 
do  I  think  it  will  add  anything  to  our  fair  reputations." 

"  To  make  a  scandal  about  it,  would  be  certainly  to  destroy 
them,"  answered  the  wiser  arid  more  worldly  sister.  "  For, 
besides  bringing  down  upon  our  heads  the  deadly  hatred  of  all 
the  D'Esterres,  and  getting  anything  but  thanks  from  our  own 
people,  all  the  world  say,  '  Those  Gisborough  girls  know  too 
much  by  half,'  and  set  it  down  to  envy  or  ill-nature,  or  any 
thing  but  modesty  or  virtue.  Believe  me,  Maud,  it  is  better  in 
the  world's  eye  to  seem  innocent,  than  to  be  so." 


396  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

At  this  moment  the  entrance  of  Mademoiselle  Angelique  put 
an  end  to  the  conversation,  and  not  long  afterward,  Maud  left 
her  sister's  chamber,  and  went  to  lie  down,  and  think  over  the 
differences  between  principle  and  practice,  not  altogether  feign 
ing  a  headache. 

But  Agnes  Vernon,  after  her  brief,  wild  conversation  with 
her  lover's  sister,  overcome  by  the  excess  of  her  own  passions, 
faint  and  exhausted,  and  agonized  by  the  perception  that  the 
crisis  of  her  fate  was  at  hand,  and  that  if  not  speedily  liberated 
from  her  husband,  by  some  strange  catastrophe,  detection  and 
disgrace  must  be  her  portion,  though  she  had  no  blush  for  the 
sin  or  the  shame,  was  yet  overwhelmed  by  the  thought  of  the 
open  scandal,  and  of  the  world's  undisguised  scorn. 

She  could  not  conceal  il  from  herself,  moreover,  that  she  had 
already  escaped  very  narrowly  being  convicted  and  exposed  ; 
that  her  infamy  was  known  to  many  of  her  own  servants,  she 
had  been  made  painfully  aware  within  the  last  week,  when  a 
waiting-woman  whom  she  had  reproved  somewhat  sharply  for 
lightness  of  demeanor,  replied  with  a  flippant  toss  of  her  head, 
that  she  saw  no  reason,  for  her  part,  why  poor  girls  had  not  as 
much  right  to  have  sweethearts  as  great  ladies  ;  and  more  too, 
seeing  that  they  had  no  husbands  ;  an  insult  which  she  was 
compelled  to  pass  in  silence,  not  daring  to  provoke  the  ven 
geance  of  the  offender. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  risk  she  had  run  ;  for  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  the  strange  tale  of  the  attempted  robbery  in  the 
park,  on  the  night  of  her  last  interview  with  Bentinck,  had  es 
caped  the  ears  of  her  husband ;  and  when  he  came  to  inquire 
into  the  particulars,  and  heard  her  version  of  the  story,  Sir 
Reginald  shook  his  head  gravely  as  he  answered  : — 

"  There  is  something  very  strange  in  all  this,  Agnes  —  some 
thing  which  I  do  not  understand.  I  hope  you  are  not  deceiv 
ing  me  in  anything,  for  I  know  the  person  very  well,  whom 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    WITNESS.  397 

you  have  described.  It  was  no  man  at  all,  nor  in  disguise  as 
you  imagine,  but  a  veritable  woman  ;  and  although  she  is  a  very 
singular  person,  and  perhaps  not  altogether  right  in  her  reason, 
she  is  certainly  incapable  of  robbery,  or  I  may  add  of  injuring  any 
person  connected  with  myself.  She  has  been  for  many  years 
one  of  the  trustiest  messengers  and  go-betweens  of  our  party. 
Her  faith  was  sorely  tried  and  not  found  wanting  during  the 
terrible  '15,  and  from  that  day  to  this  she  has  been  the  reposi 
tory  of  secrets,  which,  if  divulged,  would  set  half  the  noblest 
heads  in  England  rolling.  She  was  born  in  the  village  at  the 
park-end,  and  was  foster-sister  to  my  grandmother.  She  mar 
ried  a  Scotch  drover  afterward,  and  went  away  with  him  into 
the  western  Highlands,  where  some  adversities  befell  her  —  it 
was  a  dark  tale — by  which  her  brain  became  unsettled.  She 
believes  herself  to  be  endowed  with  second  sight,  and  the  coun 
try  people  regard  her  as  a  witch,  and  dread  her  accordingly  ; 
but  she  has  not  been  seen  in  these  parts  for  many  years,  com 
ing  when  she  has  had  occasion  to  bring  me  tidings  from  the 
leaders  of  our  party,  under  the  shadow  of  the  night,  and  con 
cealing  herself  in  a  vault  under  the  hermitage  summer-house, 
as  it  is  called,  near  the  waterfall,  in  the  Wild  Boar's  glen,  which 
is  known  only  to  herself  and  me,  of  people  now  alive.  She 
had  brought  me  a  message  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  when  I 
set  forth  with  Bentinck  Gisborough,  and  has  again  gone 
northward.  I  shall  see  her  with  the  army,  and  will  then  learn 
more  of  this  strange  business.  But  as  you  love  me,  Agnes,  if 
she  come  here  in  my  absence,  suffer  her  not  to  be  harmed  or 
interfered  with.  The  lives  of  hundreds  hang  upon  her  tongue." 
No  words  can  express  the  terror  of  the  miserable  wife,  as 
she  learned  that  the  witness  of  her  crime  was  her  husband's 
trusted  confidante,  that  he  would  see  her  before  many  days,  and 
learn  unquestionably  all  that  she  would  most  willingly  conceal. 
There  was,  however,  nothing  to  be  done,  and  she  had  only  to 

34 


398  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

wait  anxiously  in  the  hope  that  death  would  find  her  hated  hus 
band  in  the  field,  or  ere  the  fatal  explanation  should  take  place. 

The  remainder  of  his  stay  at  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  was  fraught 
to  Agnes  with  terror  and  agony  most  intense  and  unutterable. 
She  knew  not  at  what  moment  the  woman  might  return  ;  she 
had  no  one  in  whom  she  could  repose  the  slightest  trust,  now 
that  Bentinck  Gisborough  was  afar  off  with  his  regiment,  and 
she  well  knew  that  Sir  Reginald,  cold  as  he  was,  and  impas 
sive  under  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  was  as  stern  and  im 
placable  as  fate  itself,  where  his  honor  was  concerned,  and  she 
foreboded  but  too  surely  that  the  discovery  of  her  guilt  would 
be  the  signal  for  punishment  as  sudden  and  as  sure  as  heaven's 
thunder. 

It  was  with  double  ecstacy,  therefore,  arising  from  a  twofold 
cause,  that  she  beheld  him  mount  his  horse,  and  ride  away, 
never,  she  trusted,  to  return. 

His  departure  liberated  her  from  an  almost  oppressive  sense 
of  immediate  peril ;  and  she  believed  that  he  was  running  head 
long  on  his  ruin. 

It  was  under  the  impulse  of  her  boundless  sense  of  relief 
and  exultation,  that  she  had  given  vent  to  her  feelings  so  in 
cautiously  as  to  alarm  the  vain  and  worldly  mind  of  Maud  Gis 
borough,  and  thus,  by  her  own  act,  she  had  incurred  fresh  peril. 

Scarcely  had  Maud  left  the  room,  before  she  became  aware 
of  her  own  imprudence,  and  with  a  vague  wish  to  be  entirely 
alone,  and  to  review  her  own  position,  where  she  could  not  be 
interrupted — perhaps  spurred  on  by  one  of  those  incomprehen 
sible  impulses  which  seem  to  urge  men  to  their  fate  —  she  took 
her  mantle  and  walked  away,  accompanied  by  the  great  deer- 
hound  which  had  rescued  her  before,  toward  the  scene  of  her 
sin  and  shame. 

She  soon  reached  the  secluded  bower,  and  entering  it  cast 
herself  down  on  the  seat,  and  sat  gazing  on  the  waterfall,  and 


THE   HERMITAGE  REVISITED CRY  FOR  SUCCOR.  399 

on  the  wooded  glen  now  beginning  to  exhibit  the  first  tints  of 
autumn,  scarcely  conscious  what  she  was  looking  upon,  so 
wildly  and  unconnectedly  did  her  mind  wander  over  the  past 
and  the  present,  and  strive  to  unravel  the  future. 

Had  she  not  been  in  such  a  mood,  she  would  soon  have  per 
ceived  by  the  strangeness  of  the  dog's  demeanor  that  there  was 
something  amiss,  for  from  the  moment  he  had  entered  the 
alcove,  he  had  not  ceased  to  snuff  at  the  crevices  of  the  floor, 
as  if  he  scented  something,  with  his  eyes  glaring  and  his  bris 
tles  erect  along  the  whole  line  of  his  neck  and  shoulders,  utter 
ing  at  times  a  low,  short  whine  ;  until  at  length  he  went  out, 
and,  after  circling  twice  or  thrice  round  the  little  building,  laid 
himself  down  at  the  mouth  of  the  secret  trap,  and  began  scratch 
ing  violently  with  his  forepaws,  in  which  occupation  he  at  last 
became  so  furiously  excited  that  he  burst  into  a  sharp  and  sav 
age  crying. 

This  sound  it  was  which  first  aroused  Agnes  from  her  stu 
por,  but  as  she  stared  about  her  with  bewildered  eyes,  not 
understanding  what  had  occurred,  a  strange  indistinct  murmur 
from  below  her  feet,  a  faint  groan,  and  a  few  half  articulate 
words  reached  her  ears,  and  riveted  her  attention,  while  they 
shook  her  very  soul  with  terror. 

The  dog  heard  them  too,  for  lie  began  to  bay  with  increased 
fury,  and  it  was  not  till  after  a  second  effort  that  she  could 
compel  his  silence. 

Then  followed  a  second,  and  a  third  groan,  and  then  a  hol 
low  and  unearthly  voice  came  up  from  the  vaults  below  : — 

"  Help  !"  it  cried,  "  help  !  Oh !  in  God's  name,  whoever 
you  are,  help  !  I  am  dying — dying  in  agony  of  thirst  and 
famine." 

The  words  came  forth  at  intervals,  as  if  forced  out  by  the 
utmost  effort  only,  with  agony  indescribable,  and  were  accom 
panied  with  deep  racking  sighs  that  seemed  to  announce  a  hu- 


400  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

man  being's  last  parting  struggles  to  the  eternity  in  view  al 
ready. 

An  impulse,  stronger  than  her  terrors,  almost  unnatural,  urged 
her  on,  though  she  more  than  half  suspected  who  was  the 
speaker.  She  flew  to  the  trap,  seized  the  dog  by  the  collar, 
and  tied  him  with  her  scarf  to  an  oak  sapling  which  had  shot 
up  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  tree. 

Then,  after  a  little  effort,  she  found  the  spring  by  which  the 
door  was  opened,  lifted  it,  and  gazed  unconsciously  into  the 
dark  cavernous  vault,  feebly  illuminated  by  the  ray  of  light,  half 
interrupted  by  her  own  figure,  which  fell  into  it  through  the 
doorway.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  she  could  distinguish 
objects  in  the  gloom,  but  as  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
obscurity,  she  made  out  the  figure  of  the  woman  she  most 
dreaded  lying  on  the  bare  floor,  emaciated  to  the  last  degree, 
with  the  dews  of  death  already  on  her  sallow  brow.  A  quan 
tity  of  dry  clotted  gore  on  the  pavement  and  on  her  dress  ex 
plained  the  cause  of  her  inability  to  move  thence,  as  an  empty 
flask  lying  near  her  head,  and  one  of  her  shoes  cut  into  frag 
ments  and  partially  eaten,  told  the  extremity  to  which  she  had 
been  reduced  in  the  last  week  by  famine. 

"  Heaven  be  thanked  !"  she  muttered  as  the  feeble  light  fell 
upon  her  glaring  eyes.  "  There  is  yet  time  ;  water,  for  holy 
love,  fetch  me  water." 

"  But  will  you  not  betray  me,  if  I  save  you?" — faltered  the 
wretched  Agnes,  moved  by  the  sight  of  so  much  horror,  to  the 
one  soft  spot  which  must  remain  in  the  heart,  even  of  the  most 
depraved  of  women.  "  Will  you  swear  to  preserve  my  secret, 
if  I  save  you — will  you  swear  it  ? — " 

She  spoke  quick  and  short,  and  in  a  voice  rendered  husky  by 
the  intenseness  of  her  excitement. 

Then  and  not  till  then  did  the  dying  woman  recognise  her, 
T— "Ah — "  she  cried  —  "it  is  she — the  adulteress  —  the  har- 


A  HAIRBREADTH  ESCAPE A  HORRID  DEATH.  401 

lot !  Then  I  am  lost — lost — "  and  she  sank  back  on  the  stony 
floor,  from  which  she  had  half  raised  herself  under  the  influ 
ence  of  renewed  hope,  and  the  presence  of  ready  succor. 

"  No,  no,  not  lost — "  cried  Agnes  eagerly — "not  lost,  but 
saved,  if  you  will  swear  to  be  silent  — " 

"  Never !"  cried  the  woman,  "  never,  I  will  die,  sooner." 

"  Then  die  you  must,"  returned  Agnes,  shuddering  between 
the  horror  of  her  own  purpose,  and  her  dread  of  the  conse 
quences  of  her  enemy's  recovery,  "  for  I  can  not  save  you  to  be 
my  own  destruction." 

"  Water,  for  God's  sake  !  but  one  drop  of  water." 

"  Swear  ;  and  you  shall  have  water,  wine,  food,  surgical  ad 
vice,  all  that  wealth  can  procure,  all  that  the  human  heart  can 
desire  —  only  swear,  swear,  I  implore  you,"  and  she  clasped 
her  hands  beseechingly,  "  and  let  me  save  you." 

''  I  must  die,  then,"  muttered  the  woman  hoarsely,  "  but  not 
alone — you  too,  adulteress,  you  too !"  and  with  a  sudden  effort 
of  expiring  strength,  she  raised  one  of  her  pistols,  levelled  and 
discharged  it  at  the  head  of  Agnes.  The  bullet  whistled  close 
beside  her,  but  without  harming  her ;  it  just  grazed,  however, 
the  haunch  of  the  greyhound,  who  chanced  to  be  in  the  line  of 
the  aim,  and  who  was  struggling  already  fiercely  against  the 
leash  which  held  him.  At  the  wound  he  made  a  yet  more  vio 
lent  spring,  and  loosening  the  knot  of  the  scarf,  dashed  forward 
with  a  fierce  yell,  leaped  over  the  prostrate  form  of  Agnes,  who 
had  fallen  back  in  terror  at  the  shot,  and  plunged  down  head 
long  upon  his  old  antagonist. 

There  was  an  awful  and  confused  struggle  —  a  mixture  of 
fierce  snarls  and  broken  gasping  groans,  and  before  Agnes  could 
reach  the  spot  —  though  winged  by  horror  and  mercy  she  rushed 
almost  with  the  speed  of  light,  into  the  area  of  the  fatal  vault — 
all  was  over. 

But  the  fierce  dog  was  still  nuzzling  and  crunching  the  throat 
34* 


402  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

of  the  throttled  carcass,  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  and  perse 
vering  effort  that  the  terrified  lady  dragged  him  from  his  victim, 
and  led  him,  licking  his  bloody  chops,  and  growling  angrily,  up 
the  low  steps  from  that  scene  of  horror.  She  dared  not  look 
back  for  a  second  on  the  mutilated  corpse,  but  closed  and  se 
cured  the  trap,  with  trembling  fingers,  and  fled,  pale  and  hag 
gard,  through  the  green  woods  homeward.  Haggard  and  pale, 
and  with  a  sense  of  indistinct  blood-guiltiness  upon  her  soul, 
though  not  in  the  very  deed  guilty — for  when  she  questioned 
her  own  heart,  she  was  forced  to  confess  to  herself  that  she 
would  have  left  the  woman  there  to  die  alone  and  untended, 
had  not  the  savage  hound  anticipated  her  design  with  unin 
tended  mercy  —  she  felt  that  the  very  joy  she  felt  at  the  death 
of  her  worst  enemy,  was  the  joy  of  the  successful  murderess. 
No  wonder  that  gay  Lucy  Gisborough  found  her  tete-a-tete 
with  her  handsome  hostess  insufferably  dull,  and  wondered 
what  had  become  of  all  the  light,  joyous  mirth,  and  hairbrained 
excitement,  which  were  her  characteristics,  ai*d  which,  until 
now,  had  never  failed  her. 

Both  ladies,  in  a  word,  were  thoroughly  dissatisfied,  one  with 
the  other  ;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  both  when  the  hour  for  retiring 
came  ;  nor  did  it  seem  other  than  satisfactory  to  all  parties, 
when  on  the  morrow  morning,  even  before  the  early  hour  at 
which  our  unsophisticated  forefathers  of  those  days  were  wont 
to  breakfast,  a  special  courier  arrived  from  Hexham  castle,  the 
bearer  of  a  message  from  the  earl  to  his  fair  sisters,  that  they 
should  return  home  with  all  speed,  and  of  a  letter  to  the  lady 
Vernon,  full  of  regrets  and  condolence,  that  Sir  Reginald  should 
have  taken  so  rash  a  step  as  to  join  the  misguided  gentlemen, 
who  had  taken  up  arms  for  the  chevalier  (the  earl  of  Hex- 
ham  was  by  far  too  shrewd  a  courtier  to  style  a  prince,  who 
within  a  few  months  might  be  king — even  although  he  es 
poused  the  other  side  —  by  the  odious  title  of  pretender),  and 


DARK    AND    MOODY    MUSINGS.  403 

pointing  out  the  impossibility  of  his  sisters  remaining  at  the 
house  of  a  gentleman,  who  howsoever  the  earl  might  privately 
respect  and  esteem  him,  had  yet  been  proclaimed  a  rebel. 

Hereupon,  with  a  multitude  of  kisses  and  protestations,  the 
ladies  parted,  all,  to  say  the  truth,  excellently  well  pleased  to 
part ;  for  there  never  had  been  any  bond  of  union  between  them, 
except  in  the  person  of  the  now  absent  major  of  dragoons  ;  and 
Agnes  was  left  to  solitude  and  the  insatiate  restlessness  of  her 
own  over-boiling  passions,  incessantly  craving  the  presence  of 
the  one  loved  object  of  her  every  thought. 

Her  children  were  little  company  for  her,  and  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  her  undisguised  hatred  for  their  father  was  fast  ri 
pening  into  a  confirmed  dislike  of  them  also. 

Society  she  had  none,  for  the  secluded  habits  and  grave  de 
meanor  of  her  husband  had  deterred  the  neighboring  families 
in  the  first  instance  from  forming  intimacy  with  the  stern  baro 
net  and  his  beautiful  wife  ;  and  latterly,  the  increasing  rumors 
• — though  secretly  whispered  only  —  concerning  the  looseness 
of  the  lady's  conversation,  had  operated  yet  more  as  a  decided 
bar  against  her. 

She  went  forth  now  but  seldom,  never  beyond  the  precincts 
of  the  park,  and  passed  the  most  of  her  time  in  dark  and  moody 
musings,  most  unlike  to  the  old  levities  of  her  former  life. 

Only  at  one  time  did  she  arouse  herself  from  this  gloom, 
which  was  fast  growing  habitual  to  her,  and  that  was  when 
tidings  arrived  from  the  army  of  Charles  Edward's  progress 
southward,  relating  the  deeds,  the  victories  of  his  followers, 
the  wounds,  the  death,  the  glory  of  those  who  fell  in  the  arms 
of  triumph. 

Then  something  of  their  old  fire  would  kindle  her  blue  eyes, 
of  their  ancient  brilliancy  flush  crimson  to  her  pallid  cheeks. 
A  quick,  nervous  restlessness  would  agitate  her  whole  frame, 
and  mark  her  whole  demeanor. 


404  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

But  all  this  would  subside  again  into  the  original,  cold,  and 
deathlike  quietude,  when  the  despatches  were  once  perused, 
and  she  had  learned  that  her  own  fate  was  unaltered  —  for  what 
to  her  mattered  the  fate  of  empires. 

At  first,  and  for  many  a  day,  the  tidings  were  all  prosperous 
to  the  prince's  faction  —  first,  he  had  taken  Edinburgh,  on  the 
19th  of  September,  and  then  a  few  days  later  he  had  defeated 
Cope  at  Preston  Pans,  where  Honeywood's  dragoons  had  dis 
tinguished  themselves  by  falling  into  a  sudden  panic  at  the 
sight  of  the  highlanders,  and  running  away  in  spite  of  all  their 
officers  could  do,  as  fast  as  their  horses  could  carry  them,  full 
thirteen  miles  from  the  field  of  battle. 

Sir  Reginald,  who  had  joined  the  prince,  after  defeating  a 
detachment  of  horse  sent  to  intercept  himself,  had  distinguished 
himself  greatly,  and  been  slightly  wounded  in  the  action. 

He  wrote  in  great  spirits,  and  with  more  show  of  affection 
toward  his  wife  than  he  had  of  late  manifested  toward  her,  and 
congratulating  himself  on  the  idea  of  seeing  her  a  countess  ere 
a  year  had  passed,  the  prince  having  promised  to  revive  an  an 
cient  earldom,  which  had  long  been  in  abeyance,  in  favor  of  his 
brave  supporter. 

This  letter  was  rewarded  by  the  faithless  wife,  so  soon  as 
she  was  left  alone,  and  its  contents  thoroughly  perused,  by  be 
ing  torn  indignantly  to  atoms,  and  trampled  under  foot  in  a  par 
oxysm  of  scorn  and  fury. 

A  few  days  after  this  she  received  a  visit  from  her  lover,  at 
the  head  of  a  squadron  of  dragoons,  who  was  now  in  full  re 
treat  for  England,  before  the  victorious  armies  of  the  prince, 
who  was  advancing  by  forced  marches  into  Cumberland.  He 
came  under  the  pretext  of  searching  for  arms  and  papers,  but 
in  reality,  to  snatch  a  few  moments  of  guilty  consolation  for  de 
feat  from  his  abandoned  paramour,  who  received  him  with  un 
disguised  and  rapturous  affection. 


SIR    REGINALD    AGAIN    AT    HOME.  405 

Scarcely  a  month  afterward  siege  was  laid  to  Carlisle  by  the 
pretender ;  and  after  a  few  days  it  surrendered  to  his  army, 
and  with  a  joyous  and  triumphant  party  of  his  friends  and  com 
panions,  Sir  Reginald  Vernon  visited  the  house  of  his  fa 
thers,  eager  once  more  to  embrace  his  beautiful  wife  and  beloved 
children. 

All  was  enthusiastic  joy  and  loud  triumph.  Nothing  was 
spoken  of  but  an  uninterrupted  march  to  London,  but  a  succes 
sion  of  victories  and  glories,  crowned  by  the  coronation  of  the 
king  at  Westminster,  before  the  old  year  should  have  given 
birth  to  the  new. 

It  was  with  difficulty  and  disgust  that  the  wife  submitted  to 
his  caresses,  the  more  odious  now,  that  they  were  aggravated 
by  his  joy,  which  she  termed  insolence,  and  by  his  success, 
which  seemed  to  prostrate  the  dearest  of  her  hopes.  And  had 
it  not  been  for  the  revelry  and  merriment  which  rendered  the 
stay  of  the  chevalier's  adherents  at  Vernon  in  the  Vale  almost 
one  continued  scene  of  tumultuous  enthusiasm,  her  husband 
could  scarce  have  failed  to  discover  the  total  alienation  of  her 
feelings. 

The  only  pleasure  she  tasted  during  his  visit,  was  his  assu 
rance,  that  Mabel  M'Farlane  never  having  been  heard  of  since 
the  night  of  her  attack  on  Agnes,  he  was  well  assured  that  she 
had  become  entirely  demented,  and  during  some  paroxysm  of 
insanity  had  been  guilty  of  the  outrage,  in  consequence  of 
which  she  had  probably  come  to  her  end. 

After  a  brief  sojourn,  Sir  Reginald  rejoined  the  highland 
host ;  and  full  of  high  anticipations  never  to  be  fulfilled,  and 
joyous  dreams  soon  to  be  changed  for  tears  and  lamentations, 
their  proud  array  took  their  way  southward.  For  a  time  long 
er,  victory  still  clung  to  their  footsteps.  Manchester,  with  all 
the  catholic  gentry  of  its  ancient  county,  received  the  prince 
with  open  arms  ;  and  Derby  saw  his  gallant  ranks  defile,  and 


406  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

his  white  banners  wave  in  triumph  as  he  passed  under  its  an 
tique  gateways. 

But  there  was  the  limit  of  his  success,  the  term  of  his  prog 
ress.  Thence  his  retreat  commenced,  and  with  retreat,  ruin  — 
for  after  he  had  turned  his  back  to  the  capital,  not  a  man  in  all  the 
kingdom  looked  upon  his  success  as  possible,  or  did  not  augur  his 
discomfiture.  Within  a  little  more  than  two  months  after  their 
triumphant  passage  through  Carlisle,  faint,  hopeless,  and  dispirit 
ed,  the  army  of  the  unfortunate  pretender  retreated  again  through 
that  old  city ;  but  this  time  so  speedy  was  their  transit  that  Sir 
Reginald  found  no  time  to  visit  Vernon  in  the  Vale,  merely  ac 
quainting  his  wife  by  a  brief  and  desponding  letter,  that  he  was 
resolved  to  adhere  to  the  last  to  the  fortunes  of  Charles  Ed 
ward,  and  since  revenge  and  victory  had  been  denied  to  him,  at 
least  to  die  for  the  noble  cause  which  he  had  adopted. 

A  week  had  not  elapsed,  before  the  cavalry  of  the  duke  of 
Cumberland  came  up  in  hot  pursuit,  thundering  on  the  track  of 
the  rebels,  and  again  Bentinck  Gisborough  found  time  for  a  few 
hours  of  dalliance  with  his  once  more  exulting  mistress. 

The  parting  gleaTn  of  victory  at  Falkirk  shed  a  last  lustre 
upon  the  prince's  arms,  but  availed  him  nothing,  and  the  retreat 
was  continued  so  far  as  to  Culloden,  where  the  highland  array 
was  utterly  and  irretrievably  defeated,  the  rebellion  crushed,  the 
hapless  chief  a  fugitive,  literally  pursued  with  bloodhounds 
through  the  fastnesses  of  his  hereditary  kingdom,  the  birthplace 
of  his  royal  lineage,  and  all  his  brave  adherents  flying  with  a 
price  on  their  heads,  from  the  vengeance  of  the  house  of 
Hanover. 

The  energy  and  talent  which  Sir  Reginald  Vernon  had  dis 
played  throughout  the  whole  insurrection,  would  alone  have 
entitled  him  to  the  undesirable  eminence  of  especial  guiltiness 
above  all  the  rebels,  but  when  to  this  were  added  the  consider 
ation  that  he  had  been  actuated  even  more  by  hostility  to  the 


TOTAL  DEFEAT  OF  THE  PRETENDER.         407 

reigning  house,  and  personal  rancor  against  the  king,  than  by 
any  loyalty  to  the  Stuarts,  and  the  secret  instigations  of  the 
house  of  Gisborough,  actuated  by  Bentinck,  it  was  soon  under 
stood  that  whosoever  else  might  be  spared,  no  mercy  would  be 
shown  to  Vernon,  of  Yernon  in  the  Yale. 

Meanwhile  the  prince  escaped  after  incredible  fatigues  and 
hardships.  Of  his  brave  adherents,  too  many  perished  by  pla 
toons  of  musketry  under  the  martial  law  ;  too  many  on  the 
bloody  scaffold,  victims  to  a  mistaken  and  disastrous  loyalty — 
a  few  escaped,  and  when  vengeance  was  satiate  of  blood,  a  sad 
remnant  received  pardon  and  swore  allegiance  to  the  king\ 

But  of  Sir  Reginald  Yernon  no  tidings  had  been  received 
since  in  the  last  charge  of  Honeywood's  dragoons  at  Culloden, 
he  was  seen  resisting  desperately  to  the  last,  till  he  was  un 
horsed,  cut  down,  and  left  for  dead  upon  the  plain.  His  body 
was  not  found,  however,  on  the  fatal  field,  and  none  knew  what 
had  befallen  him  ;  but  it  was  generally  supposed  that  he  had 
escaped  from  the  field  only  to  die  in  some  wretched  and  forlorn 
retreat  among  the  inaccessible  fastnesses  of  the  Highland  hills. 

His  name  was  fast  sinking  into  oblivion,  and  wras  remem 
bered  only  by  his  wife,  when  she  congratulated  herself  on  her 
liberation  from  his  detested  power. 

The  winter  had  passed  away,  and  flowers  of  spring  had  giv 
en  way  to  the  more  gorgeous  bloom  of  summer,  and  still  noth 
ing  had  been  heard  of  Sir  Reginald.  Pursuit  had  ceased  after 
the  rebels.  Peace  had  resumed  its  sway  in  the  land  ;  and  once 
more  Bentinck  Gisborough,  and  his  elder  sister  Lucy,  were 
on  a  visit  at  Yernon  in  the  Yale. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Reginald  had  devised  his  estates 
in  trust  to  this  very  man,  and  the  arrangement  of  this  trust  was 
the  pretext  of  the  present  visit.  Lucy  accompanied  her  broth 
er  in  order  to  play  decorum,  and  prevent  scandal  concerning 
the  young  widow — for  such  Agnes  was  now  generally  regard- 


408  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

ed,  though  she  had  never  assumed  weeds,  or  affected  to  play 
the  mourner  for  the  fate  of  a  husband,  whom  she  now  openly 
spoke  of  as  a  cold,  stern,  selfish  tyrant. 

Ill  success  is  a  great  accuser,  a  great  condemner  of  the 
fallen.  And  what  between  the  fury  of  the  country  against  the 
vanquished  rebels,  by  which  it  compensated  its  terror  while 
they  were  victorious,  and  the  address  and  beauty  of  Agnes  Ver- 
non,  she  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  victim,  in  some  sort,  a 
very  charming,  and  greatly-to-be-pitied  person  —  a  beautiful,  in 
nocent  child,  ill-assorted  with  a  kind  of  public  Catiline  and 
domestic  Blue-Beard.  And  Lucy  smiled,  and  jested,  and 
played  the  unconscious  innocent,  while  her  brother  played  the 
villain,  and  her  hostess  the  wanton,  openly  before  her  unblush 
ing  face. 

And  the  world  had  begun  to  whisper  that  it  was  a  pity  that 
Sir  Reginald's  death  could  not  be  authenticated,  that  his  widow 
might  find  consolation  for  all  her  sufferings  and  sorrows,  in  a 
more  congruous  marriage  with  the  young  officer  who,  it  was 
rumored,  had  been  the  first  object  of  her  wronged  affections. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  affairs,  when  late  on  a  July  evening, 
while  Lucy  was  gazing  at  the  moon  through  the  stained  win 
dows,  and  Agnes  and  Gisborough  were  talking  in  an  under 
tone  in  the  shadow  of  a  deep  alcove  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
withdrawing-room,  a  servant  entered  with  a  billet  which  he 
handed  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  saying  that  it  had  been  brought 
in  by  one  of  the  head  forester's  children,  who  had  it  from  a 
stranger  he  had  met  in  the  park,  near  the  Wild  Boar  glen. 

Agnes  turned  pale  as  she  heard  his  speech,  and  a  half  shriek 
burst  from  her  lips,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  handwriting. 

It  was  from  her  husband,  and  contained  these  words  only  : 

"  AGNES  :  By  God's  grace  I  am  safe  thus  far  ;  and  if  I  can 
lie  hid  here  these  four  days,  can  escape  to  France.  On  Sun 
day  night  a  lugger  will  await  me  off  the  Greene  point,  nigh  the 


SIR    REGINALD    NOT    DEAD.  409 

mouth  of  Solway.     Come  to  me  hither,  to  the  cave  I  told  thee 
of,  with  food  and  wine  so  soon  as  it  is  dark.    Ever  my  dearest, 

whom  alone  I  dare  trust. 

"THY  REGINALD." 

"  It  is  from  him  !"  whispered  Bentinck,  so  soon  as  the  ser 
vant  had  retired,  which  he  did  not  do  until  his  mistress  had 
read  the  letter  through,  and  burned  it  at  the  taper,  saying  care 
lessly,  "  It  "is  nothing.  A  mere  begging  letter.  There  is  no 
answer  to  it.  Give  the  boy  a  trifle,  and  send  him  home,  Rob 
inson." 

"  It  is  from  him,  Agnes !"  whispered  Bentinck,  in  a  deep 
voice  trembling  with  emotion. 

Agnes  replied  by  a  look  of  keen,  clear  intelligence,  laying 
her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  no  more  was  said  at  the  time,  for 
Lucy  had  paid  no  attention  to  what  was  passing  and  asked  no 
question,  and  Gisborough  took  the  hint. 

After  a  while,  however,  when  the  stir  created  by  this  little 
incident  had  passed  over,  she  in  her  turn  said  carelessly  in  an 
ordinary  tone,  not  whispering  so  as  to  excite  observation  : — 

"  Yes  !     It  is  he,  and  he  must  be  dealt  withal." 

"  Ay  !"  answered  Bentinck.     "  Ay !  but  how  ?" 

"  You  must  not  be  here,  Gisborough,  the  while  ;  that  is  clear. 
So  order  your  horse  and  men  for  to-morrow  morning,  and  ride 
away  toward  York,  or  to  Hexham,  it  were  better,  to  your  broth 
er's,  and  tarry  there  a  week,  saying  naught  of  this  to  anybody." 

"  Well  ?  but  what  then  ?  How  shall  the  rest  be  done  ?  or 
who  shall  do  it  ?" 

"  I !"  replied  the  miserable  woman,  her  eye  sparkling  with 
fierce  light,  but  her  brow,  her  cheek,  her  lip,  as  white  as  ash 
es.  "  I !" 

"You!  Agnes,  you!"  said  her  lover,  half  aghast  at  such 
audacity  and  cruelty  combined. 

"  Yes  !  I,  infirm  of  purpose,  I ! — not  with  my  hand  though, 

35 


410  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

with  my  head  only !  It  has  come  to  this,  that  \ve  must  take  or 
be  taken  —  that  we  must  kill  or  die.  I  prefer  the  former." 

"  I  will  go,"  answered  Gisborough  quickly  ;  and  perhaps  not 
sorry  to  be  away  from  the  spot  during  the  acting  of  so  awful  a 
tragedy,  and  to  have  no  absolute  participation  in  the  crime.  "  I 
will  go,  and  order  my  horses  now,  and  set  forth  at  six  o'clock ;" 
and  he  rose  from  his  seat  as  if  to  go  and  give  directions. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  go,  I  suppose  it  is  better  so,"  s'he  replied. 
"  Lucy,"  she  added,  raising  her  voice,  "  Bentinck  goes  to  Hex- 
ham  to-morrow,  to  see  your  brother  upon  business.  Will  you 
not  run  up  to  your  room,  dearest,  and  write  a  few  lines  to  Maud, 
with  my  love,  asking  her  to  return  hither  with  him  for  a  few 
weeks." 

"  Surely,  yes,  Agnes,"  answered  the  girl,  hurrying  to  obey 
her.  "  I  shall  be  very  glad^that  is  so  kind  of  you."  And  she 
left  the  room  quite  unconscious  of  what  was  going  on. 

Gisborough  gazed  on  his  paramour  with  something  between 
admiration  at  her  coolness,  and  disgust  at  her  cold-blooded  fe 
rocity,  but  the  former  feeling,  backed  by  her  charms,  and  his 
own  interests,  prevailed. 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  whispering,  "  You  are  a  strange 
girl,  Agnes.  So  soft  and  passionate  in  your  love,  so  cold  and 
stern  in  your  hatred." 

"  And  do  you  reproach  me  with  it  ?" 

"  Reproach  you  ?     I  adore  you." 

"A  truce  to  these  raptures  now.  This  is  the  time  for  coun 
cil  and  for  action !  this  deed  accomplished,  I  am  yours,  all  and 
for  ever — now  —  where  are  the  nearest  soldiers,  and  of  whose 
corps  ?" 

"  At  Edenhall.  Ligonier's  veteran  foot.  One  company  with 
Captain  de  Rottenberg." 

"  Enough !"  she  answered.  And,  after  a  few  moments' 
search  in  the  drawer  of  a  writing-table,  she  found  a  piece  of 


SCHEMES    OF    LOVE    AND    MURDER.  411 

coarse,  soiled  paper  in  which  some  parcel  had  been  folded  up, 
and  scrawled  some  lines  on  it,  in  a  coarse,  masculine  hand,  ill- 
spelled,  and  ungrammatical,  acquainting  the  officer  commanding 
the  detachment,  that  by  searching  the  vault  under  the  summer- 
house,  in  the  park  of  Vernon  in  the  Yale,  hard  by  the  water 
fall  in  the  Wild  Boar's  glen,  he  would  secure  a  prize  of  impor 
tance,  and  gain  a  high  reward. 

This  she  directed  and  endorsed  with  speed,  in  the  same 
manly  hand.  Then  giving  it  to  her  lover :  "  When  you  are 
ten  miles  hence,  on  the  road  to  Hexham,  let  one  of  your  men, 
in  whom  you  can  place  confidence,  ride  down  to  Alstone  moor, 
and  forward  it  thence  by  express  to  Edenhall,  post-haste.  Let 
the  man  use  no  names  —  tell  him  it  is  for  a  bet,  or  what  you 
will,  to  divert  him  —  only  let  him  forward  it  post-haste,  and 
then  follow  you  direct  to  Hexham.  Once  there,  invent  some 
cause  to  send  him  off  to  London,  or  to  my  father's  it  were  bet 
ter  in  the  New  Forest,  so  all  shall  be  over,  or  ere  he  return 
again." 

"  I  will ;  I  see,  brave  Agnes  !  clever  Agnes  !"  and  again  he 
gazed  at  her  passionately.  "  I  see  ;  and  when  he  shall  re 
turn—" 

"  His  head  shall  have  fallen,"  the  woman  interrupted  him, 
"  and  we  shall  be  one  for  ever — secure  and  unsuspected  ;  now 
leave  me.  I  must  go  to  him,  arid  lull  him  to  security.  Fare 
you  well,  and  God  bless  you  !" 

Most  strange  that  lips,  which  scarce  an  instant  ago  had  syl 
labled  those  bloody  schemes  of  adultery  and  murder,  should 
dare  to  invoke  a  blessing  from  the  all-seeing  God.  But  such 
and  so  inconsistent  a  thing  is  humanity. 

And  then,  with  fraud  on  her  lips,  and  treason  at  her  heart, 
she  went  forth,  and  carried  food  and  wine,  comfort,  and  hope, 
and  consolation,  and  more,  "  the  fiend's  arch  mock,",  the  unsus 
pected  caresses  of  a  wanton,  to  her  betrayed  and  doomed  part- 


412  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

ner,  where  he  lay,  horrible  concealment,  in  that  dark,  loath 
some  vault,  that  charnel-vault,  wherein  had  rotted  the  mortal 
relics  of  the  slaughtered  woman,  whose  bones  yet  lay  bare  on 
the  damp  and  mouldy  pavement. 

What  passed  at  that  interview,  none  ever  knew.  For  terror, 
if  not  shame,  held  her  tongue  silent,  and  his  was  soon  cold  in 
death.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  she  did  lull  him  into  false 
security ;  for,  on  the  second  morning  afterward,  when  De  Rot- 
tenberg's  grenadiers,  obedient  to  the  note  of  their  anonymous 
informer,  surrounded  the  summer-house,  and  entered  the  vault, 
they  found  Sir  Reginald  sleeping,  and  secured  him  without 
resistance. 

The  course  of  criminal  justice  was  brief  in  those  days,  and 
doubly  brief  with  one  so  odious  to  the  government  and  the 
country  at  large,  as  a  Roman  catholic  rebel. 

His  trial  quickly  followed  his  apprehension  ;  conviction,  sen 
tence,  execution,  went  almost  hand  to  hand  with  trial,  so  speed 
ily  did  they  succeed  to  it. 

No  hope  of  mercy  was  entertained  by  Sir  Reginald  from  the 
first.  The  obstinate  adherence  of  his  family  to  the  hapless 
house  of  Stuart,  forbade  that  hope,  and  he  made  no  exertions 
to  obtain  it,  neither  hurrying  rashly  upon  his  fate,  nor  seeking 
Aveakly  to  avoid  it. 

It  was  observed  at  the  time  as  strange,  that  he  constantly  re 
fused  to  see  his  wife  after  his  arrest,  though  he  spoke  of  her 
respectfully,  and  even  affectionately,  to  his  attendants,  and  sent 
her  his  miniature,  at  last,  by  his  confessor.  Some  attributed 
this  refusal  to  a  sense  of  his  own  past  unkindness,  and  to  self- 
reproach —  others  to  a  fear  of  compromising  her  with  the  gov 
ernment —  but  whatever  was  the  cause,  he  kept  it  to  himself; 
and  died,  with  undaunted  resolution,  commending  his  soul  to 
his  Maker,  and  crying  with  his  last  breath,  "  God  save  King 
James !" — under  all  the  appalling  tortures  which  the  law  de- 


DEATH    OF    SIR    REGINALD    VERNON.  413 

nounces,  and  which  public  opinion  had  not  then  disclaimed 
against  those  guilty  of  high  treason. 

He  died,  the  good,  the  gallant,  the  high-minded — a  victim 
not  to  disloyalty  or  wicked  partisanship,  not  to  ambitious  and 
self-seeking  motives — but  to  a  mistaken  sense  of  right  —  a 
misguided  and  blind  loyalty  to  one  whom  he  deemed  his  right 
ful  sovereign,  to  family  traditions,  and  what  he  believed  to  be 
hereditary  duty. 

He  died — silent!  and  whether  unsuspecting  or  unforgiving, 
even  the  guilty  and  fiendish  wife  who  sent  him  to  the  reeking 
scaffold,  slaying  him  by  her  thought  and  deed,  as  surely  as  if 
she  had  stricken  him  with  her  own  hand,  though  she  might 
doubt  and  tremble,  never  knew  to  her  dying  day. 

So  died,  at  Carlisle,  in  his  prime  of  noble  manhood,  unwept 
and  soon  forgotten,  Reginald  Vernon.  Peace  be  to  his  soul ! 

Vice  was  triumphant,  then,  and  virtue  quite  downfallen  and 
subdued  with  rampant  infamy  exulting  over  her.  But  the  end 
was  not  then.  The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the 
battle  to  the  strong. 

And  so  was  if-  seen  thereafter. 
35* 


414  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 


PART    IV. 

"  But  in  these  cases 

We  still  have  judgment  here ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which  being  taught  return 
To  plague  the  inventor.     This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  the  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips." — MACBETH. 

TEN  years  had  flown  from  the  day  on  which  Reginald  Ver- 
non  died  on  the  scaffold,  devouring  his  own  heart  in  silence. 

Ten  years !  That  is  one-seventh  part  of  the  whole  term  of 
human  life,  as  it  is  laid  down  by  the  inspired  writer ;  one- 
fourth  part  nearly  of  that  portion  of  existence  in  which  maturity 
both  of  mind  and  body  permit  of  enjoyment  in  its  largest  and 
most  comprehensive  sense.  Ten  years !  Many  and  great 
events  are  wont  to  happen  even  to  the  calmest  and  most  every 
day  individuals,  events  transforming  their  characters,  altering 
their  very  natures,  raising  them  from  the  depths  of  misery  and 
wo,  or  on  the  other  hand  precipitating  them  from  the  pinnacle 
of  earthly  bliss  ;  —  the  death  of  friends,  the  defection  of  the 
loved,  the  birth  of  children,  the  mutations  of  worldly  fortunes, 
the  arrival  of  maturity,  the  approach  of  old  age,  the  ravages  of 
disease,  the  shadow  of  death  creeping  across  the  dial  premoni 
tory  of  his  coming. 

It  is  rarely  indeed  that  ten  years  pass  away  over  the  head  of 
any  human  being, — unless  it  be  the  very  humble  and  laborious 
poor,  whose  life  may  be  summed  up  in  four  words,  to  be  born, 
to  toil,  to  suffer,  and  to  die, — without  leaving  their  impress  in 
delible  either  upon  the  features  or  upon  the  character.  Happy 
are  they  whose  career  is  so  moderate,  whose  course  of  life  is 
so  innocent  and  tranquil,  that  their  years  glide  away  serene  and 


TEN    YEARS    AFTER.  415 

unnoticed,  and  old  age  steals  upon  them,  hale,  and  green,  and 
happy,  or  ere  they  have  discovered  that  they  are  not  still 
young. 

Ten  years  had  rolled  away,  in  storm  and  sunshine,  over  the 
antique  groves  and  time-honored  mansions  of  Vernon  in  the 
Vale,  over  the  heads  of  its  inhabitants  ;  and  all  were  still  the 
same,  and  yet  how  different.  The  very  woods  no  longer  wore 
the  same  aspect,  as  the  growth  of  the  younger  and  the  decay 
of  the  more  ancient  trees  had  altered  their  outlines,  let  in  sun 
light  where  there  used  to  be  dark  shadows,  and  made  deep 
gloom  where  there  used  to  be  merry  sunshine. 

Buildings,  perhaps,  display  the  flight  of  time  less  than  any 
thing  else  on  the  face  of  this  transitory  world,  until  extreme  old 
age  and  dilapidation  has  overtaken  them.  Still  the  old  hall, 
though  not  dilapidated,  had  taken  a  stride  farther  on  the  road 
to  ruin  than  the  lapse  of  ten  years  should  have  warranted  had  a 
master's  eye  overlooked  it.  The  slated  roof  was  overrun  with 
wild  leeks  and  the  yellow  flowering  stone-crop,  the  ivy  had  en 
croached  so  far  as  to  darken  many  of  the  windows,  the  swal 
lows'  nests  had  accumulated  under  the  eaves  into  great  heaps 
of  rubbish,  dank  moss  and  lichens  covered  the  neglected  terra 
ces,  and  the  grass  grew  rank  among  the  stones  of  the  court 
yard. 

Still  it  was  not  uninhabited  or  abandoned,  for  two  or  three 
columns  of  smoke  were  worming  their  way  slowly  up  into  the 
dull  misty  skies  of  November,  and  a  few  servants  were  seen 
loitering  to  and  fro,  listless  and  inanimate,  and  seemingly  but 
half  alive. 

It  was  a  melancholy,  misty  evening ;  the  sere  leaves  lay 
thick  on  the  grass  of  the  neglected  lawns,  the  leafless  boughs 
of  the  great  trees  were  groaning  in  the  gusty  night-wind,  and 
the  solemn  cawing  of  the  homeward-bound  rooks  alone  broke 
the  sad  and  chilling  silence. 


416  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

From  one  of  the  oriel  windows  of  the  withdrawing-room  of 
that  old  hall  a  solitary  female  figure  was  overlooking  the  mel 
ancholy  landscape,  with  an  air  as  dark  and  in  an  attitude  as 
cheerless  as  the  weather  or  the  scenery. 

A  thin,  emaciated,  pallid  female  figure.  The  outlines  of  the 
form  still  showed  some  traces,  it  is  true,  of  grace  and  symme 
try  ;  the  gentle  curve  of  the  flexible  throat,  the  soft  fall  of  the 
shoulders,  the  pliability  of  the  waist,  the  delicate  srnallness  of 
the  hand,  the  foot,  the  ankle,  are  things  which  do  not  pass  away, 
and  these  were  still  visible  in  the  wreck  of  faded,  frozen  beauty. 
All  else  was  angular,  and  hard,  and  dry,  as  if  the  living  wo 
man  had  been  a  mere  skeleton  overlaid  with  the  parchment 
skin  of  a  mummy ;  in  like  manner,  the  features  were  still  good, 
but  they  were  fleshless  and  attenuated,  pinched  and  sharpened 
almost  into  the  likeness  of  a  corpse. 

The  great  blue  eyes,  once  so  soft  and  languishing,  or  so  full 
of  vivid  and  speaking  fire,  retained  their  size  indeed,  nay,  in 
the  general  shrinking  of  all  else  they  looked  preternaturally 
wide  and  open  ;  but  they  were  cold  and  stony  as  the  carved  or 
bits  of  a  marble  statue,  that  have  no  speculation  in  them. 

Her  bosom  heaved  and  fell  with  a  quick,  painful  motion,  as 
if  every  breath  was  drawn  with  exertion  and  anguish.  One 
thin  hand,  which  rested  on  her  knee,  was  beating  it  with  a  ner 
vous,  restless  movement  of  which  she  evidently  was  uncon 
scious.  Her  hair,  of  old  so  luxuriant  and  of  so  glossy  and  so 
rich  an  auburn  hue,  was  now  thin  and  dead-looking,  and 
bleached  to  a  dull  flaxen  whiteness,  utterly  unlike  the  bright 
and  beautiful  silver  which  is  so  honorable  to  the  head  of  re 
spected  age. 

That  wasted,  withered  figure  was  all  that  time  had  spared 
of  the  once  lovely,  once  voluptuous  Agnes  Vernon ! 

"Time!"  said  I  —  "what  had  time  to  do  with  that  swift, 
noiseless,  premature  decay  ?" 


A    PREMATURE    DECAY.  417 

She  had  not  as  yet  seen  her  thirty-third  summer,  and  hers, 
when  we  saw  her  last,  was  a  frame  that  promised  increased 
vigor,  health,  luxuriance,  beauty,  as  she  should  advance  toward 
maturer  years  and  riper  womanhood. 

Time,  we  lay  upon  thy  shoulders  and  broad  wings  many  a 
load  which  should  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  our  own  secret  sins 
and  withering  passions.  Excess  of  body,  agony  of  mind,  are 
greater  sowers  of  gray  hairs  on  the  head,  deeper  ploughers  of 
furrows  on  the  brow  of  youth,  than  all  the  time  that  has 
passed  from  the  creation  downward. 

Time,  thou  wert  guiltless  of  all  this  fair  creature's  swift  de 
cline  into  the  valley  of  sorrow — the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death  ;  for  such  was  the  road  which  she  was  travelling,  as  the 
most  casual  glance  of  the  most  careless  passer  could  not  fail 
to  see. 

Yes !  Agnes  Gisborough  was  dying,  and  she  knew  it ;  but 
she  knew  not  whether  she  most  wished  to  die  from  weariness 
of  the  life  present,  or  dreaded  it  from  weariness  of  the  life  to 
come. 

Yes!  Agnes  Gisborough! 

For  hardly  was  the  martyred  rebel  cold  in  the  bloody  cere 
ments  of  his  untimely  grave,  before  the  youthful  widow  gave 
herself  arid  all  her  rich  possessions  to  the  choice  of  her  young 
heart,  the  partner  of  her  secret  sin,  with  the  approval  and  amidst 
the  sympathizing  joy  of  the  selfish  world. 

The  play  was  played  out,  and  the  great  stake  was  won  ;  then 
followed  a  few  months  of  wild  rapture,  of  passion  satiated,  of 
anticipation  more  than  fulfilled,  a  few  seasons  of  brilliant  glitter 
and  blithe  revelry  in  the  gay  scenes  of  the  metropolis,  and  then 
exhaustion,  tedium,  apathy,  satiety,  disgust. 

I  have  wasted  many  words  to  little  purpose,  if  I  have  not 
made  it  evident  that  under  all  her  lightness  of  exterior  Agnes 
had  a  secret  well  of  immense  energy  and  earnest  passion,  a 


418  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

vast  power  of  will,  an  intense  power  of  feeling,  whether  good 
or  evil — that  she  was  one  of  those  strangely  constituted  per 
sons  who,  as  an  Italian  writer  has  paradoxically  but  not  untruly 
observed,  demonstrated  by  the  very  atrocity  of  the  crimes  which 
they  commit,  the  perfection  of  their  organization,  and  the  great 
ness  of  the  virtues  of  which,  under  different  circumstances,  they 
are  capable. 

She  could  not  have  hated  so  bitterly,  had  she  not  been  capa 
ble  of  loving  devotedly  ;  nay,  more,  she  could  not  have  hated 
so  bitterly,  unless  that  very  hate  had  been  itself  born  of  the 
wrecks,  the  chaos  of  wronged,  disappointed,  and  distorted  love. 

Detesting  Reginald  Vcrnon,  she  had  no  love  for  his  children, 
and  she  had  devoted  the  whole  intense  energies  of  her  affec 
tions  on  a  man  utterly  unworthy  of  appreciating  her  devotion, 
utterly  heartless,  selfish,  frivolous,  and  vain.  The  woman's  ne 
cessity — the  necessity  of  loving  something  —  was  upon  her, 
and  she  had  loved  Gisborough,  or  rather  the  image  of  qualities 
and  attributes  with  which  her  fancy  had  invested  him,  with  all 
the  depth  of  adoration  which  such  a  woman  feels  when  she 
does  love  indeed. 

How  terrible  the  extent  of  that  love  was  can  be  estimated 
only  by  the  consideration  of  the  atrocious  crime  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty,  and  of  the  secret  workings  of  the  mind  which 
had  goaded  her  on  irresistibly  to  its  commission ;  for  she  was 
not  hard  or  cruel  by  nature,  nor  had  even  the  very  perversion 
of  her  passions  rendered  her  so  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  joy 
ous,  light-hearted,  fond  of  pleasure,  voluptuous,  averse  to  pain 
herself,  and  unwilling  to  inflict  it  on  others.  It  can  be  con 
ceived  what  strange  workings  and  self-deceptions  of  the  secret 
soul  she  must  have  felt  ere  such  a  one  as  she  could  be  wrought 
to  the  temper  of  the  murderess. 

It  can  be  conceived  what  a  self-imposed  task  and  horror  it 
was  that  she  bore,  and  what  a  struggle  it  cost  her  ere  she 


LOVE'S  LABOR  LOST.  419 

could  bring  herself  to  do  the  deed,  although  her  firm  character 
gave  no  outward  sign  at  the  time  of  the  inward  convulsion. 

She  believed  that  by  that  deed  she  had  bound  Bentinck  Gis- 
borough  to  herself  by  bonds  indissoluble,  everlasting — bonds 
of  affection  as  of  gratitude.  She  had  given  him  more,  perhaps, 
than  woman  ever  gave  before  or  since,  acquired  at  such  a  price 
of  blood  and  honor. 

She  had  raised  him  from  actual  penury  to  enormous  wealth; 
for,  the  younger  brother  of  a  peer,  not  himself  so  rich  as  he  was 
lavish  and  expensive,  he  had  speedily  consumed  his  small  patri 
mony  in  fashionable  dissipation,  and  possessed  nothing  whereon 
to  live  but  his  commission  and  a  host  of  debts,  when  she,  with 
her  beautiful  form,  her  ardent  temperament,  and  her  boundless 
adoration,  bestowed  on  him  a  life-interest  in  the  immense  in 
comes  and  noble  demesnes  of  Vernon  in  the  Vale. 

But  cold-blooded,  weak-spirited,  and  irresolute,  and,  in  a 
word,  incapable  of  strong  feeling  or  energetic  action  of  any 
kind,  Bentinck  Gisborough  had  never  loved  her  except  with  the 
short-lived  passion  of  the  voluptuary,  extinguished  almost  as 
soon  as  it  is  satisfied  ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  strange  events 
that  followed,  he  would  probably  have  quitted  her  soon  after 
winning  her  for  the  arms  of  a  new  beauty. 

When  -he  perceived,  on  Sir  Reginald's  taking  arms  against 
the  government,  that  he  had  a  manifold  chance  of  ere  long  suc 
ceeding  to  the  reversion  not  of  his  wife  only,  for  whom  he  was 
then  in  the  first  glow  of  guilty  passion,  but  in  the  common 
course  of  things,  without  any  overt  action  of  his  own,  much 
less  any  crime,  of  his  estates  and  treasure  likewise,  he  perse 
vered  and  persisted  until  the  matter  was  resolved  as  it  was. 

In  truth,  from  that  moment,  instead  of  gratitude  for  the  love 
and  adoration  of  the  woman,  he  felt  only  horror  for  the  crime, 
and  dread  lest  he  should  in  turn  be  a  victim  to  the  violence  of 
her  passions.  His  interests,  however,  prevailed,  and  in  wealth 


420  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

and  in  all  that  it  could  procure,  and  in  the  intoxication  of  her 
beauty  and  of  her  adoration,  while  it  was  new,  he  had  drowned 
his  apprehensions  for  what  he  felt  could  not  be  termed  remorse. 

For  a  time,  therefore,  all  went  on  merrily,  if  not  well,  and 
she  thought  not  of  sorrow  or  repentance,  enjoying  the  full  glow 
of  the  world's  admiration,  revelling  in  prosperity  and  pleasure, 
and  possessed,  as  she  believed,  of  Gisborough's  intense  affection. 

By  degrees,  however,  the  novelty  of  the  situation  passed 
away,  Bentinck  grew  negligent,  inattentive,  and — though  she 
knew  not  as  yet  or  suspected  that — faithless  to  her  person, 
and  a  follower  of  other  beauties. 

That  was  a  coarse  age,  indelicate  in  its  pleasures,  unrefined 
in  its  profligacy.  Vice  wore  no  veil  at  the  orgies  of  her  wor 
shippers.  And  ere  long,  Gisborough  began  to  indulge  con 
stantly  in  the  lowest  debauchery,  often  intoxicated,  often  gam 
bling,  until  the  sun  was  high  in  heaven,  and  she  was  left  alone 
to  her  own  thoughts. 

Her  own  thoughts,  and  they  were  horror.  Thence  she  be 
gan  to  reflect,  began  to  mope,  began  to  pine.  And  when  he 
would  at  times  feel  some  return  of  passion,  she  could  not  meet 
his  raptures,  but  was  cold,  abrupt,  or  reluctant. 

The  seeds  of  distrust  and  dislike  were  sown  ;  they  had  taken 
root,  and  they  grew  apace. 

At  length,  how  it  needs  not  to  relate,  for  such  details  must 
ever  be  offensive  to  pure  minds,  she  detected  him  in  open  infi 
delity —  and  that  with  a  woman  whom  he  openly  disliked  and 
despised — a  woman  no  more  to  be  compared  with  herself  in 
charms  than  Hyperion  to  a  satyr. 

At  once,  and  with  all  the  impetuosity  of  her  nature,  all  the 
vehemence  of  a  woman  wronged,  all  the  intense  and  lacerated 
passion  of  a  benefactor  ill-requited,  she  taxed  him  with  his  in 
gratitude,  not  tenderly  and  reproachfully,  but  with  all  the 
roused  fury  of  a  woman  scorned, 


FURY    OF    A    WOMAN    SCORXED.  421 

He  replied  coarsely,  brutally,  cruelly.  He  reminded  her  of 
her  own  faithlessness  to  her  late  husband,  and  went  so  far  even 
as  to  tell  her  laughingly  that  they  well  understood  one  another 
now,  and  he  would  give  her  carte  blanche  for  her  actions,  if  she 
would  extend  the  like  privilege  to  him. 

The  paroxysm  of  almost  frantic  rage  into  which  this  cast 
her,  seemed  only  to  excite  his  merriment  at  first ;  but  when  it 
had  lasted  some  minutes,  and  when  she  at  length  threatened 
that  she  who  had  given  could  take  away,  out  broke  the  secret 
of  his  soul. 

"  Look  you,"  he  said,  "  my  lady.  You  can  not  terrify  me 
by  your  menaces,  even  though  I  know  all  of  which  you  are  ca 
pable.  I  shall  not  go  throw  my  neck  into  the  noose^like  that 
fool  Yernon,  that  you  may  choke  me  at  your  leisure  —  nor, 
though  I  well  believe  you  have  the  will  to  use  knife  or  poison 
on  me,  do  I  think  you  dare  it.  If  you  do,  I  am  on  my  watch, 
my  lady,  and  on  the  first  attempt,  I  hand  you  over  to  the  Bow 
Street  people  —  do  you  understand  me?  That  is  the  way  to 
treat  a  harlot  and  a  murderess  !" 

She  gazed  at  him  while  he  was  speaking,  as  if  she  was  per 
fectly  stupified,  and  did  not  comprehend  his  meaning,  but  be 
fore  he  had  ceased,  every  sign  of  passion  had  passed  away 
from  her  face,  and  though  as  pale,  she  was  as  firm  as  a  marble 
statue. 

"  Bentinck  Gisborough,"  she  said,  "  no  more  !  You  have 
said  enough.  Together  we  can  live  no  longer.  I  will  go  my 
way  to  Yernon  in  the  Yale,  and  live  there  alone  with  my  mem 
ory.  Allow  me  what  you  will  of  that  which  was  once  my 
own  ;  enjoy  the  rest,  after  your  own  fashion.  There  has  been 
that  between  us,  which,  treat  me  as  you  will,  will  not  make  me 
hate  you — the  memory  of  mutual  happiness  —  perhaps  even 
the  consciousness  of  mutual  crime.  Spare  me  more  bitter 
words,  and  with  to-morrow's  dawn  I  will  return  home — home 

36 


422  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

—  to  such  a  home,  as  you  and  my  own  frenzy  have  left  me,  and 
I  will  trouble  you  no  more  for  ever.  God  help  me,  and  forgive 
you,  Bentinck  Gisborough  —  for  if  ever  a  woman  loved  a  man 
with  her  whole  soul  and  spirit,  even  so  did  I  love  you.  An 
swer  me  not ;  now,  fare  you  well  for  ever." 

Before  he  could  reply,  if  he  would  have  replied,  she  had 
left  the  room ;  and  before  he  had  awaked  from  his  drunken 
sleep  on  the  following  morning,  she  was  miles  away  from  Lon 
don  on  her  way  to  the  north,  with  a  single  woman-servant  as 
the  companion  of  her  way. 

At  the  first  moment,  he  might  have  felt  some  small  compunc 
tion,  but  some  of  his  gay  companions  came  to  seek  him,  and 
new  org^s  and  a  deeper  bowl  washed  away  all  remembrance 
of  that  shameful  scene.  Her  absence  liberated  him  from  a 
restraint  that  had  of  late  become  almost  insupportable,  and  he 
soon  rejoiced  that  he  was  rid  of  her  power. 

The  only  touch  of  feeling  which  he  showed  to  one  who  had 
loved  so  much,  who  had  sinned  and  suffered  so  deeply,  and  all  for 
him,  was  that  he  allowed  her  more  than  an  ample  maintenance, 
more,  by  two  thirds,  than  she  expended,  in  her  altered  state  ; 
and  even  this  was  probably  the  thoughtlessness  of  an  extrava 
gant  and  careless  disposition,  lavish  of  what  he  hardly  valued, 
rather  than  the  result  of  any  kind  or  generous  sympathy:  —  of 
those  he  was  incapable. 

Thenceforth,  as  she  had  said,  she  lived  with  her  memories, 
and  what  those  memories  were,  her  altered  aspect,  her  blanched 
hair,  her  nervous,  almost  timid  bearing,  testified. 

She  found  her  children  at  the  hall,  where  they  had  been  left 
under  the  care  of  a  trusty  servant,  during  those  two  years  of 
wild  dissipation  at  the  capital.  They  were  much  grown,  much 
improved — but  they  knew  not  their  mother,  nor  recognised  the 
voice  of  her  that  bore  them. 

But  from  that  day  forth,  although  she  showed  little  of  a 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  AGNES.  423 

mother's  fondness,  nothing  of  a  woman's  overflowing  tender 
ness,  she  became  the  most  exemplary  of  mothers,  as  a  guide, 
as  a  teacher. 

It  was  remarked  often  by  those  who  observed  what  was 
going  on,  that  she  behaved  as  if  she  were  performing  a  duty 
which  had  no  pleasure  in  it ;  as  if  she  were  paying  a  debt,  for 
which  she  should  receive  no  reward. 

And  it  is  very  like  that  she  herself  felt  thus  ;  and  if  she  did 
feel  thus,  her  feelings  were  forebodings,  for  she  did  reap  no 
reward  in  this  world,  and  of  the  next  we  judge  not. 

The  children  grew  in  beauty,  in  excellence  of  form,  and  rare 
quickness  of  intellect ;  and  they  had  learned  to  love  their  calm, 
kind,  quiet  monitress  with  an  exceeding  love,  though  very  dif 
ferent  from  the  glad,  joyous  affection  of  ordinary  children. 

In  the  second  summer  of  her  return  home,  however,  the  little 
girl  was  taken  with  a  terribly  contagious  fever,  which  was  ra-' 
ging  in  the  district,  and  in  spite  of  all  Agnes's  care,  who  never 
left  the  bedside  till  she  too  was  stricken  down  by  the  disease, 
she  died  delirious  while  her  mother  was  insensible. 

The  wretched  woman  returned  slowly  to  herself — she  was 
not  destined  to  die  —  and  saw  by  the  black  dresses  of  her  at 
tendants  that  all  was  over.  She  asked  no  question,  made  no 
sign,  nor  ever  again  spoke  the  name  of  her  little  Agnes  ;  but 
when  she  regained  her  strength,  devoted  herself  as  before  to 
her  now  sole  trust,  the  boy  Reginald. 

I  should  have  stated  that  she  persisted  in  refusing  to  see  any 
visiters,  even  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  who  would  fain  have 
called  to  console  her.  She  never  received  the  offices  even  of 
her  own  church,  nor  would  admit  the  good  priest,  who  per 
formed  in  secrecy,  at  peril  of  his  life,  the  services  of  religion 
in  the  chapels  of  the  parish  gentry  of  the  neighborhood  more 
than  the  episcopalian  rector. 

The  boy  was  sent  to  church — to  the  protestant  church — • 


424  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

weekly,  in  the  charge  of  an  old  steward  ;  but  for  the  lady,  none 
knew  that  she  ever  prayed  at  all,  or  that  she  believed  in  any 
creed,  or  had  faith  in  any  doctrine. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  some  years,  the  mother  pining 
hourly  and  fadkig,  and  becoming  every  year  more  frail,  more 
gray,  more  taciturn,  more  wretched  ;  the  boy  growing  daily  in 
strength  and  beauty,  in  proficiency  in  manly  sports  and  exer 
cises,  in  intellect  and  scholarship. 

If  ever  boy  gave  promise  of  a  noble  manhood,  it  was  he  ;  and 
he  had  now  reached  his  twelfth  summer.  Nine  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  death  of  the  late  Sir  Reginald  Yernon, 
and  seven  since  the  return  of  his  mother  from  her  short  so 
journ  in  London  with  her  second  lord  ;  and  since  that  day  Ben- 
tinck  Gisborough  had  never  visited  the  hall,  nor,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  a  formal  letter,  covering  a  large  remittance  every 
quarter,  had  he  given  any  token  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  se 
clusion  that  he  was  in  life,  or  mindful  of  their  existence. 

Of  his  career,  however,  tidings  were  rife  in  that  remote 
rural  solitude.  The  most  despe-rate  roisterer  in  England  was 
the  once  refined  Bentinck  Gisborough ;  a  furious  gambler,  an 
unsparing  miner  of  female  reputations,  a  duellist  of  deadly 
skill. 

But  in  this  last  year  it  was  said  that  he  had  surpassed  all 
former  violences,  all  the  extravagances  of  past  conduct ;  and  it 
was  whispered  that  the  bold  impudence  of  his  conduct  with  a 
certain  beautiful  French  countess,  the  wife  of  the  embassador 
of  the  day,  was  such  that  it  had  called  forth  the  animadversions 
even  of  royalty,  and  that  he  would  not  be  able  much  longer  to 
brazen  it  out  in  the  metropolis. 

Retirement  in  the  country,  it  was  whispered,  or  a  tour  on 
the  continent,  would  soon  be  the  only  resources  left  to  the 
ruined  Bentinck  Gisborough. 

One  summer's  afternoon,  some  twelve  months  previous  to 


YOUNG  REGINALD'S  FATAL  RIDE.  425 

the  evening  on  which  we  have  seen  Agnes  gazing  out  alone 
on  the  darkening  scenery  of  the  park,  she  was  walking  out  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  chase,  without  a  servant,  accompanying 
her  boy,  who  was  mounted  on  a  new  pony,  which  she  had 
lately  procured  for  him  from  London  at  great  cost  and  trouble. 
It  was  a  beautiful  and  graceful  creature,  an  Arabian  full  of 
spirit  and  quick  fire,  but  gentle  and  docile  as  it  was  eager  and 
high-blooded.  The  boy  was  an  excellent  and  fearless  rider, 
and  had  been  careering  to  and  fro  over  the  open  lawns,  now 
diving  into  the  dark  groves  and  rousing  the  fallow  deer  from 
their  lairs,  now  returning  at  full  speed  to  his  mother's  side,  top 
ping  the  rugged  fences  as  he  came,  and  calling  up  a  wan  smile 
on  her  faded  lips  by  his  enthusiastic  spirit. 

Suddenly  she  saw  him  reappear  from  one  of  the  clumps  into 
which  he  had  galloped,  with  his  cap  off,  his  horse  frantic  either 
with  pain  or  with  terror,  and  a  furious  stag  close  in  pursuit 
goading  the  horse  with  its  antlers. 

They  broke  away  across  the  open  lawn,  and  plunged  into  an 
avenue  which  she  knew  but  too  well.  It  was  that  leading  to 
the  fatal  Wild  Boar's  Glen,  which  she  never  had  visited  since 
that  night  of  horror.  Now  she  rushed  to  it  by  a  short  cut  des 
perately,  madly — a  short  cut  through  the  woods,  the  same  in 
which  she  had  encountered  Mabel  on  the  eve  of  her  first  crime 
— but  she  thought  not  of  that  now  as  she  fled  onward,  onward, 
shrieking  so  painfully  that  she  aroused  and  brought  out  all  the 
servants  from  the  distant  hall. 

But  she  outstripped  them  all,  and  reached  the  esplanade  of 
the  fatal  summer-house,  just  in  time  to  see  the  Arabian  plunge 
in  its  frantic  terror  down  the  steep  ravine,  with  the  powerless 
rider  hanging  rather  than  sitting  on  its  back. 

The  servants  when  they  reached  the  spot  found  the  horse 
and  the  two  bodies  together  on  the  stream's  verge,  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  ravine.  At  first  they  believed  that  all  three  were 

36* 


426  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

dead,  but  for  Agnes  there  was  no  such  fortune !  The  boy  and 
the  horse  were  killed  outright,  the  wretched  mother  had  only 
fainted  ;  but  it  was  months  before  she  returned  to  the  posses 
sion  of  her  senses,  and  during  her  delirium  she  raved  so  fear 
fully,  and  uttered  hints  of  such  dark  deeds,  that  the  most  prac 
tised  nurses  fled  her  bedside  in  terror. 

But  as  before  she  recovered,  and  as  before  asked  no  ques 
tions. 

Her  observers  could  observe  her  lips  move  often,  when  she 
was  silent,  and  tried  from  their  movement  to  conjecture  the* 
words  which  she  syllabled.  Some  fancied  that  they  were, 
"  Thy  will  be  done."  But  that  spirit  was  not  in  her;  they 
were  one  sad,  ceaseless,  uninterrupted  sigh,  mea  culpa,  mea 
culpa.  Had  she  repented  1  Who  shall  read  the  soul !  Only 
she  was  seen  oftentimes  to  draw  forth  from  her  bosom  a  small 
vial  of  some  very  transparent  liquid,  to  look  at  it  wistfully,  and 
to  shake  her  head  as  she  returned  it  muttering,  "  Not  yet,  it  is 
not  yet  time." 

They  thought  in  their  simplicity  that  it  was  holy  water. 
And  now  she  was  sitting,  as  she  was  wont  to  do  for  hours, 
gazing  out  on  the  growing  gloom,  devouring  her  own  soul  in 
silence.  If  mortal  agony  endured  on  earth  may  wipe  away 
mortal  sin,  then  indeed  might  we  hope  that  hers  might  have 
been  cleansed  and  purified  ;  but  alas !  we  are  told  by  those 
pages  which  can  not  tell  amiss,  that  we  must  repent,  that  we 
must  believe  if  we  would  be  saved. 

And  did  she  repent,  or  in  what  did  she  believe  ? 

Suddenly,  as  she  sat  there,  she  shuddered,  for  the  sound  of 
wheels  coming  up  the  avenue  at  a  rapid  pace  smote  upon  her 
ears,  and  then  the  unwelcome  sight  of  a  travelling  carriage  at 
full  speed,  with  six  horses  and  eight  outriders,  met  her  eyes. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart 
forcibly.  Her  foreboding  spirit  told  her  what  was  about  to  be. 


GISBOT.OUGH    AND    HIS    PARAMOUR.  327 

Nearer  it  came  and  nearer,  and  now  she  might  distinguish 
the  liveries  of  her  husband's  house,  and  now  at  the  open  win 
dow  her  husband's  head,  and  behind  it  a  female  hat  of  the 
newest  fashion,  plumed,  furbelowed,  and  flowered  to  the  height 
of  the  ton. 

"  It  is  too  much,"  she  cried,  in  a  hoarse,  husky  cry,  "  it  is 
too  much — yet  I  looked  for  it.  O  God  !  O  God  !  have  mercy." 

And  with  the  words  she  rushed  up  to  her  own  room,  entered 
it,  locking  and  double  locking  the  door  behind  her ;  a  female 
servant  seeing  her  wild  looks  followed  hastily,  and  knocked 
and  there  came  no  reply,  and  listened  but  there  was  no  sound  ; 
and  after  a  while,  growing  weary  of  waiting,  and  supposing 
that  her  lady  was  in  a  moody  fit,  she  ran  down  stairs  to  see  the 
new-comers. 

It  was  as  wretched  Agnes  had  foreseen.  It  was  her  miser 
able,  shameless  lord,  with  his  last  paramour,  the  French  em- 
bassadress,  driven  out  of  London  by  the  loud  burst  of  indigna 
tion  which  the  impudence  of  their  infamy  had  elicited,  and 
come  to  intrude  upon  the  last  refuge  of  his  victim. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?"  he  asked  sharply  of  the  steward, 
when  he  saw  that  the  rooms  were  empty.  "  How  cold  and 
cheerless  everything  looks  here.  Bring  lights  and  make  a 
fire,  and  fetch  refreshments  too,  and  some  of  the  old  Burgundy  ; 
and  hark  you,  Robinson,  let  Lady  Gisborough's  woman  bid  her 
come  down  and  greet  the  countess  of  Penthicore." 

All  below  was  soon  in  confusion  ;  servants  hurrying  to  and 
fro  with  lights,  and  rich  wines,  and  costly  viands,  but  all  above 
was  cold  and  silent  as  the  grave.  Agnes's  maid  knocked  and 
knocked  at  her  lady's  door  in  vain,  and  at  last  descended  the 
stairs  fearfully,  and  sent  word  to  Bentinck,  who  was  by  this 
time,  as  his  wont,  half-intoxicated,  that  her  lady  would  neither 
come  down  nor  make  any  answer. 

"  She  shall  come  down,"  said  Bentinck,  uttering  at  the  same 


428  THE    PRICE    OF    BLOOD. 

time  a  fearful  imprecation,  "  she  shall  come  down,  if  I  drag  her 
by  the  hair — I  will  stand  no  woman  fantasies.  Show  me  her 
room  ;"  and  rushing  up  stairs,  scarcely  pausing  to  shout  fiercely 
and  violently  to  her  to  open  the  door  for  a  harlot  as  she  was, 
kicked  in  the  fastenings  with  his  heavy  boot,  and  darted  in, 
perhaps  intending  to  do  worse  violence,  followed  by  all  the  ser 
vants,  trembling,  and  pale,  and  foreboding  I  know  not  what  of 
horror. 

It  was  a  fearful  sight.  On  the  bed,  cold  and  stiff  already, 
she  lay  outstretched,  with  her  hands  clenched,  her  white  lips 
apart  showing  the  pearly  teeth  within  hard  set,  her  glassy  eyes 
glaring  wide  open,  and  full  of  some  strange  supernatural  horror, 
which  seemed  to  have  come  over  her  in  the  last  agony. 

The  stopper  of  a  small  glass  phial  rolled  on  the  carpet  under 
the  feet  of  one  of  the  first  who  entered  and  on  examination,  the 
bottle  was  found  clenched  in  her  right  hand. 

There  was  a  faint  odor  in  the  room  as  of  burnt  almonds  or 
bruised  laurel  leaves. 

She  had  gone  to  her  fate,  rash,  headlong  and  impenitent. 

Within  three  days  Bentinck  Gisborough  fell  by  the  hand  of 
the  count  de  Penthicore,  whose  sword  avenged  not  his  own 
wrongs  alone,  but  the  blood  of  many  an  innocent  and  one  guilty 
victim. 

Truly  was  it  written,  that  the  wages  of  sin  is  death. 


THE     END. 


J.  S.  REDFIELD, 

CLINTON    HALL,    NEW   YORK, 
HAS  JUST  PUBLISHED : 


EPISODES  OF  INSECT  LIFE. 

By  ACHETA  DOME^TICA.  In  Three  Series:  I.  Insects  of  Spring. — 
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made  ugly  or  repulsive.  A  charm  is  thrown  around  every  object,  and  life  suffused, 
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MEN  AND  WOMEN  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

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Louis  XV.,  and  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Two  volume  12mo. 
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CONTENTS.— Dufresny,  Fontenelle,  Marivaux,  Piron,  The  Abbe  Prevost,  Gen  til -Bernard, 
Florian,  Boufflers,  Diderot,  Gretry,  Riverol,  Louis  XV.,  Greuze,  Boucher,  The  Van- 
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Bernis,  Crebillon  the  Gay,  Marie  Antoinette,  Made,  de  Pompadour,  Vade,  Mile.  Ca- 
margo,  Mile.  Clairon,  Mad.  de  la  Popeliniere,  Sophie  Arnould,  Crebillon  the  Tragic, 
Mile.  Guimard,  Three  Pages  in  the  Life  of  Dancourt,  A  Promenade  in  the  Palais-Royal, 
the  Chevalier  de  la  Clos. 

"  A  more  fascinating  book  than  this  rarely  issues  from  the  teeming  press.  Fascina 
ting  in  its  subject ;  fascinating  in  its  style :  fascinating  in  its  power  to  lead  the  render  into 
castle-building  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  bewitching  description." — Courier  ff  Enquirer. 
"This  is  a  most  welcome  book,  full  of  information  and  amusement,  in  the  form  of 
memoirs,  comments,  and  anecdotes.  It  has  the  style  of  light  literature,  with  the  use 
fulness  of  the  gravest.  It  should  be  in  every  library,  and  the  hands  of  every  reader." 
Boston  Comm.onwe.alth. 

"A  BOOK  OF  BOOKS.— Two  delicionsly  ppicy  volumes,  that  are  a  perfect  bonne  bouche 
for  an  epicure  in  reading.'' — Home  Journal. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


CLOVERNOOK; 

Or,  Recollections  of  our  Neighborhood  in  the  West.  By  ALTCE 
CARKY.  Illustrated  by  DARLEY.  One  vol.,  12rao.,  price  $1.00. 
(Third  edition.) 

"  In  this  volume  there  is  a  freshness  which  perpetually  chflrms  the  reader.  You  seem 
to  he  made  free  of  western  homes  at  once."—  Old  Colony  Memorial. 

"They  hear  the  true  stamp  of  genius— simple,  natural,  truthful — and  evince  a  keen 
sensp  of  the  humor  and  pathos,  of  the  comedy  and  tragedy,  of  life  in  the  country."— J. 
G.  Wtdtticr. 


DREAM-LAND  BY  DAY-LIGHT: 

A  Panorama  of  Romance.     By  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO'.     Illustrated 
by  DARLEY.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25.      (Second  edition.) 

"  Those  simple  nnd  beautiful  stories  are  nil  highly  endued  with  nn  exquisite  percep 
tion  of  natural  beauty,  with  which  is  combined  an  appreciative  sense  of  its  relation  to 
the  lushest  moral  emotions."— Albany  State  Rrffi*tr,r. 

"  Gladly  do  we  greet  this  floweret  in  the  field  of  our  literature,  for  it  is  fragrant  with 
eweet  and  bright  with  hues  that  mark  it  to  be  of  Heaven's  own  planting." — Courier  and 
Enquirer. 

"  There  is  a  depth  of  sentiment  and  feeling  not  ordinarily  met  with,  and  some  of  the 
noblest  faculties  and  aft'ections  of  man's  nature  are  depicted  and  illustrated  by  the  skil 
ful  pen  of  the  authoress."—  Churchman. 


LAYS  OF  THE  SCOTTISH  CAVALIERS. 

By  WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN,  Professor  of  Literature  and  Belles-Let- 
tres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh  and  Editor  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  One  vol.,  12mo.  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"  Since  Lockhart  and  Macaulay's  ballads,  we  have  had  no  metrical  work  to  he  com 
pared  in  spirit,  vigor,  and  rhythm  with  this.  These  ballads  imbc  dy  and  embalm  the 
chief  historical  incidents  of  Scottish  history— literally  in  'thoughts  that  breathe  and 
words  that  burn.'  They  are  full  of  lyric  energy,  graphic  description,  and  genuine  feel 
ing." — Home  Journal. 

"  The  fine  ballad  of  '  Montrose'  in  this  collection  is  alone  worth  the  price  of  the  book." 
Boston  Transcript. 


THE  BOOK  OF  BALLADS. 
By  BON  GAULTIER.     One  volume,  12mo.,  cloth,  price  75  cents. 

"  Here  is  a  book  for  everybody  who  loves  classic  fun.  It  is  made  up  of  ballads  of 
all  sorts,  each  a  capital  parody  upon  the  style  of  some  one  ot  the  best  lyric  writers  of 
the  time,  from  the  thundering  versification  of  Lockhart  and  Macaulay  to  the  sweetest 
and  simplest  strains  of  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson.  The  author  is  one  of  the  first 
scholars,  and  one  of  the  most  finished  writers  of  the  day,  and  this  production  is  but  the 
frolic  of  his  genius  in  play-time  " — Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  We  do  not  know  to  whom  belongs  this  nom  de  plume,  but  he  is  certainly  a  humorist 
of  no  common  power." — Providence  Journal. 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  GOSPEL, 

Illustrating  Phases  of  Character  at  the  Present  Day.     By  Rev.  E. 
H.  CHAFIN.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  50  cents.     (Second  edition.) 

"As  we  read  his  pnges,  the  reformer,  the  sensualist,  the  skeptic,  the  man  of  the 
world,  the  seeker,  the  tuter  of  charity  and  of  iaith,  stand  out  from  the  Scriptures,  and 
join  themselves  with  our  own  living  world." — Christian  Enquirer. 

"Mr.  Chapin  has  an  easy,  graceful  style,  neatly  touchinsr  the  outlines  of  his  pictures, 
and  giving  great  consistency  and  beauty  to  the  whole.  The  reader  will  find  admirable 
descriptions,  some  most  wholesome  lessons,  and  a  fine  spirit." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"Its  brilliant  vivacity  of  style  forms  an  admirable  combination  with  its  soundness  of 
thought  and  depth  of  feeling."—  Tribune. 


tot 


LADIES  OF  THE  COVENANT: 

Memoirs  of  .Distinguished  Scottish  Females,  embracing  the  Period 
of  the  Covenant  and  the  Persecution.  By  Rev.  JAMES  ANDER 
SON.  One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  Jt  is  a  record  which,  while  it  confers  honor  on  the  sex,  will  elevate  the  heart,  and 
strengthen  it  to  the  better  performance  of  every  duty."— Religious  Herald.  (Va.) 

"  It  is  a  book  of  great  attractiveness,  having  not  only  the  freshness  of  novelty,  but 
every  element  of  historical  interest." — Courier  and  Enquirer. 

•'  It  is  written  with  great  spirit  and  a  hearty  sympathy,  and  abounds  in  incidents  of 
more  than  a  romantic  interest,  while  the  type  ot  piety  it  discloses  is  the  noblest  and 
most  elevated."— .ZV:  Y.  Evangelist. 


TALES  AND  TRADITIONS  OF  HUNGARY. 

By  THERESA  PULSZKY,  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.     One  vol., 

price  $1.25. 

THE  above  contains,  in  addition  to  the  English  publication,  a  NEW  PREFACE,  and 
TALES,  now  first  printed  from  the  manuscript  of  the  Author,  who  has  a  direct  interest 
in  the  publication. 

"  This  work  claims  more  attention  than  is  ordinarily  given  to  books  of  its  class.  Such 
is  the  fluency  and  correctness — nay,  even  the  nicety  and  felicity  of  style— with  which 
Madame  Pulszky  writes  the  English  language,  that  merely  in  this  respect  the  tales  here 
collected  form  a  curious  study.  But  they  contain  also  highly  suggestive  illustrations  of 
national  literature  and  character." — London  Examiner. 

"  Freshness  of  subject  is  invaluable  in  literature — Hungary  is  still  fresh  ground.  It 
has  been  trodden,  but  it  is  not  yet  a  common  highway.  The  tales  and  legends  are  very 
various,  from  the  mere  traditional  anecdote  to  the  regular  legend,  and  they  have  the 
sort  of  interest  which  all  national  traditions  excite." — London  Leader. 


SORCERY  AND  MAGIC. 

Narratives  of  Sorcery  and  Magic,  from  the  most  Authentic  Sources. 
By  THOMAS  WRIGHT,  A.M.,  &c.     One  vol.  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  We  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  which 
has  for  a  long  time  issued  from  the  press." — Albany  Express. 

"The  narratives  are  intensely  interesting,  and  the  more  so,  as  they  are  evidently  writ 
ten  by  a  man  whose  object  is  simply  to  tell  the  truth,  and  who  is  not  himself  bewitched 
by  any  favorite  theory."— N  Y.  Recorder. 


REDFIELD  S    NEW    AND    POPULAR    PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  NIGHT-SIDE  ON  NATURE; 

Or,  Ghosts  and  Ghost-Seers.     By  CATHARINE  CROWE.     One  vol., 
12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"In  this  remarkable  work,  Miss  Crowe,  who  writes  with  the  vigor  and  grace  of  a 
woman  of  strong  sense  and  high  cultivation,  collects  the  most  remarkable  and  best  au 
thenticated  account?,  traditional  and  recorded,  of  preternatural  visitations  and  appear 
ances." — Boston  Transcript. 

"An  almost  unlimited  fund  of  interesting  illustrations  and  anecdotes  touching  the 
spiritual  world."— New  Orleans  Bee. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE; 

Complete  in  Three  Volumes,  with  a  Portrait,  a  Memoir  by  James 
Russell  Lowell,  and  an  Introductory  Essay  by  N.  P.  Willis;  edit 
ed  by  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  12mo.,  price  $4.00. 

'•  We  need  not  say  that  these  volumes  will  be  found  rich  in  intellectual  excitements, 
and  abounding  in  remarkable  specimens  of  vigorous,  beautiful,  and  highly  suggestive 
composition  ;  they  are  all  that  remain  to  us  of  a'man  whose  uncommon  genius  it  would 
be  folly  to  deny." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  POP'S  intellectual  character — his  genius — is  stamped  upon  all  his  productions, 
and  we  shall  place  these  his  works  in  the  library  among  those  books  not  to  be  parted 
with." — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  These  productions  will  live.  They  bear  the  stamp  of  true  genius ;  and  if  their  repu 
tation  begins  with  a  'fit  audience  though  few,'  the  circle  will  be  constantly  widening, 
and  they  will  retain  a  prominent  place  in  our  literature." — Rev.  Dr.  Kip. 


CHAPMAN'S  AMERICAN  DRAWING-BOOK. 

The  American  Drawing-Book,  intended  for  Schools,  Academies,  and 
Self-Instruction.  By  JOHN  G.  CHAPMAN,  N.  A.  Three  Parts 
now  published,  price  50  cents  each. 

THIS  Work  will  be  issued  in  Parts  ;  and  will  contain  Primary  Instruction  and  Rudi 
ments  of  Drawing:  Drawing  from  Nature  —  Materials  and  Methods:  Perspective  — 
Composition  —  Landscape  —  Figures,  etc.  :  Drawing,  as  applicable  to  the  Mechanic  Arts : 
Painting  in  Oil  and  Water  Colors  :  The  Principles  of  Light  and  Shade :  External  Anato 
my  of  the  Human  Form,  and  Comparative  Anatomy  :  The  Various  Methods  of  Etching, 
Engraving,  Modelling,  &c. 

"  It  has  received  the  sanction  of  many  of  our  most  eminent  artists,  and  can. scarcely 
be  commended  too  highly." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

•'  But  so  clearly  are  its  principles  developed  in  the  beautiful  letter-press,  and  so  exquis 
itely  are  they  illustrated  by  the  engravings,  that  the  pupil's  way  is  opened  most  invi 
tingly  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  both  the  elements  and  application." — Home  Journal. 

"The  engravings  are  superb,  and  the  typography  unsurpassed  by  any  book  with 
which  we  are  acquainted.  It  is  an  honor  to  the  author  and  publisher,  and  a  credit  to 
our  common  country." — Scientific  American. 

"  This  work  is  BO  distinct  and  progressive  jn  its  instructions  that  we  can  not  well  see 
how  it  could  fail  to  impart  a  full  and  complete  knowledge  of  the  art.  Nothing  can  vie 
with  it  in  artistic  and  mechanical  execution.1'—  Knickerbocker  Magazine. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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